…suppose Newton had gone to his grave with his formula, what would he have been without, what would Newton have remained with. And it was thus, through asking these sorts of questions, that I arrived at my Theory of Souls. What is a soul, I said to the Other,? You mean you expect me to have knowledge of the soul? I laughed and laughed, well what is a soul, what could a soul be, but all those things we might have said in life but didn’t say and refrained from saying. Newton, if he had not spoke his theory, if he had not spoke his truth, that would have been his soul. Though as it is, he had none (for he spoke the thing he had to say, gave up his soul, revealed the formula).

No, I will not say that is the soul, (even now I find myself unable to inform you of it). But it is what nourishes it, absolutely so — round and round they would refuse to repeat it, until they were spun into people who were utterly silent — silence would blanket every bit of mankind, each particle of Humatum would be listeners, — they would be all attention — ! —

Now says the Other, wouldn’t it be also desirable, if not even more desirable, if people did share what they knew — even if, as you claim, speaking robbed us of our true selves– but refrained from saying what they didn’t — refrained from saying what they only guessed at, or supposed, or opined, or “had heard somewhere”, or for some reason felt inclined to say; wouldn’t that be even more beneficial to the peace of the world, to the depth of the world, and maybe even for those people’s souls, if they stopped making assertions for which they had no certain proof? For we find pleasant and useful Newton’s formula and speaking can lead to understanding and to cooperation. Provided only that we do speak of what we do know and do not speak of what we do not.

It is not the view I outline in my treatise, I respond, but I will grant you there is a certain merit to that view — yes, intuitively and on the face of it, I would say it is clear that people should share what they do know and not share what they do not — or it would be, were it not that my very own treatise takes rather the opposite view of the matter, and that is result of a very long study.

Be that as it may, said the Other, what is it you mean by this term you’ve been using “Humatum”? Something quite simple, I replied. It’s true (as I have elsewhere proved) that animals are types of gasses, I suppose? — You have said so, yes. — And gasses are composed of molecules? — Yes — And humans are types of animals? — yes, again, the Other said, oh now I think I begin to see…. And molecules have the names of molecules? — Hold on, I’m not sure what you mean by that. — I mean something I think very simple: that there are sort of names appropriate to certain types of things and it is by those sorts of names you call those sorts of things. I mean: there are sorts of names appropriate to people and you call people by those names as opposed to the sorts of names you give to objects; you give cars certain types of names and planets somewhat different types, and this is why people say such things as “that’s a great name for a car” because that name is the exemplar or model of a certain name-type; and in the same way, there are names appropriate to molecules and those are the sorts of names we give to them. We don’t call molecules Larry or Jose or Mazda 2x or Return of The Dead, but helium and nitrogen and the like? — Yes, now I see that you’re quite correct. — And isn’t “Humaton” a name like that we would give to a molecule or at least suggestive of the science that deals with molecules and atoms? — Now I see, said the Other, yes of course.

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“blamed, weak, unsociable, friendless…” Oedipus Colognus 1225-1238 at Perseus Greek / English ;

μὴ φῦναι τὸν ἅπαντα νικᾷ λόγον: τὸ δ᾽, ἐπεὶ φανῇ,
βῆναι κεῖθεν ὅθεν περ ἥκει,
πολὺ δεύτερον, ὡς τάχιστα.
ὡς εὖτ᾽ ἂν τὸ νέον παρῇ κούφας ἀφροσύνας φέρον,
τίς πλαγὰ πολύμοχθος ἔξω; τίς οὐ καμάτων ἔνι;
φθόνος, στάσεις, ἔρις, μάχαι
καὶ φόνοι: τό τε κατάμεμπτον ἐπιλέλογχε
πύματον ἀκρατὲς ἀπροσόμιλον
γῆρας ἄφιλον, ἵνα πρόπαντα
κακὰ κακῶν ξυνοικεῖ.

The notes to this passage are very helpful in revealing that Sophocles seems to have been influenced by this passage from Theognis:

“πάντων μὲν μὴ φῦναι ἐπιχθονίοισιν ἄριστον,
μηδ᾽ ἐσιδεῖν αὐγὰς ὀξέος ἠελίου,
φύντα δ᾽ ὅπως ὤκιστα πύλας Ἀΐδαο περῆσαι
καὶ κεῖσθαι πολλὴν γῆν ἐπιεσσάμενον”

One can get along with Jeffers, Anthony next thought, and Marlow is the one one wants to be like, and so on; they all have their attributes. But who is Anthony, Anthony next thought (his thoughts seeming to make sense to him now — before they did not seem to make quite so much sense.)

Anthony is the one whom — he is the one whom — nothing. Anthony is neither one of them, nor is he really himself: he is not who he is, who they are, who I am, or was or will be — in each person. He is no one, not a person. How then do I proceed if I am not? Should not he who is not one not do, as it is only the one who is who should and actually can do and really does?

Or is someone a no one precisely because he has not yet done –hasn’t “done his homework”, in some sense, so to speak– has failed to make the requisite preparations to be truly someone in a given situation, and act somehow. Now, though I am no one, I strangely feel that not to do would be what a someone would actually do, for all the others (who I’ve believed so far to be distinct) now are doing things together, making them, in a certain sense, indistinct, thought Anthony.

(His thoughts, after this, began to make much less sense, — then ceased to make sense. Like a man climbing stairs with a large spool of electric wire in his arms, who, the higher he got, the more the spool was unwound; and who was beginning to notice there was no wire left in the spool, though he was still climbing the stairs.) “I must now utterly close,” he thought.

3.6 /eng.

ὁκόταν θέρος γένηται ἦρι ὅμοιον, ἱδρῶτας ἐν τοῖσι πυρετοῖσι πολλοὺς προσδέχεσθαι χρή.

Evsey D. Domar ” argued that the more or less simultaneous rise of serfdom in Russia and slavery in the New World were driven by the opening of new land, which made labor scarce and would have led to rising wages in the absence of coercion.” according to krugman

(War & Peace) “Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war when entrenched under the enemy’s fire, if they have nothing to do, try hard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. To Pierre all men seemed like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life: some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some in women, some in toys, some in horses, some in politics, some in sport, some in wine, and some in governmental affairs. ‘Nothing is trivial, and nothing is important, it’s all the same — only to save oneself from it as best one can,’ thought Pierre, ‘Only not to see it, that dreadful it!'”

“Pretension may sit still, but cannot act. Pretension never feigned an act of real greatness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad, nor drove back Xerxes, nor christianized the world, nor abolished slavery.” Emerson, Spiritual Laws.

“Let the great soul incarnated in some woman’s form, poor and sad and single, in some Dolly or Joan, go out to service and sweep chambers and scour floors, and its effulgent day-beams cannot be muffled or hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supreme and beautiful actions, the top and radiance of human life, and all people will get mops and brooms; until, lo, suddenly the great soul has enshrined itself in some other form and done some other deed, and that is now the flower and head of all living nature.” (Emerson, Spiritual Laws.)

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3

Where the walker sound starts the thought sentence ends. Centcom. Supreme Leader of Allied Forces in Europe. Sir. “Metal rattling over concrete riddles with punctuation interior attempts at…at…” at statements.

Head tipped back, advertisements coming alive, passengers’ heads looking like snakes and it all looks like some cheap movie — or rather, not cheap: as they have in fact spent millions and millions of dollars to create precisely these cheap effects.

Head tipped back, mouth agape, rumbling bus, thumb rubbing base of index finger for no reason; thought helping the poor was “bullshit” [pause] because I’m the poor. Closing eyes, the professor seems to address the bus riders from his podium: “the ratio of the circumference of society to the radius of its relief of the poor is equal to the irrational root of it all.” (Had to give kudos to his saying that.) “of podiums that are my craniums” (and to that)

But he felt the need to sit. (You are already sitting. “I know but.”) From his sitting position he sat, and he sat again as the bus rumbled beneath. He sat repeatedly in himself as if stuck in the act. Was he trying to get comfortable? Was he moving?

Looking at the figures seated on the bus he seemed to view them as figures of the historical past, exalted and humble, George Washington in particular (there were actually a couple of George Washingtons) among the exalted, Roman and American slaves among the humble, a Halloween of what no one wanted to go as, sitting on a sunny knoll where the grass was still gleaming and wet.

He brought his hands to his temples, thought of the “new sunny knoll of his cranium”, and no longer felt the need to sit.

(Bringing his hand to his temples was like scooting the chair up beneath him. He had been sitting but now he truly seemed to be so, sitting and still.)

And when the bus, which he truly believed himself to be on, and was on, opened its doors, he did not remove his hands from head’s temples, and continued to feel calm, though he moved.

Then he removed his hands from his temples and had just time enough to say Oh Hell

–How’s it goin there man, a voice said.
–Hanging in there Ben! How bout yourself?
–Yup, hangin in!

No I didn’t or would, –was blubbering but didn’t-slash-wouldn’t have, at least I happen to have not

Invasion of Sicily, sir. Malta they called “Finance” while I believe Sicily itself was codenamed “Horrified”. Sir. Seriously, what the F has happened to this country? Excuse me. (That flag again which seemed almost a flashing skin around his brain: its soft and waving sheath.) “I have to confess: I’m not having a good day today. Just so you know. Excuse me.” (He really had, he now realizes, depended on a certain idea of his country which had, in a heartbeat, scattered away. Where? Who?) There were no carriers in the Mediterranean. Naturally all were deployed in the pacific. Maybe there had been a few escort carriers, I don’t know. Someone had said The Wasp, but I doubt it. There it goes again, what the F, a feeling like, a feeling like … “Heh man how are ya?” I can only look him in the face (my look may be a little hostile) and bury my face in my hands. “Are you…? Do you need…?” “Excuse me no” (don’t seem so stern) “I’m sorry I just need a second. I’ve been through this, I’ve been through this. Thank you, I just, just.” “I understand, I–” he says, backing off.

Landing on the beaches. The Italians were not born fighters. I see “A.S.” sir. Eisenhower I believe smoked three packs a day. You can see them cross the beaches and the jeeps and tractors parked by the dunes. This was the first time that they employed the Duck landing craft. Used phosphorous. I think that’s right. The sand spraying from the scrambling tires. There was a pool of magma. Patton: “Clear out! Magma pool!” Was it the Germans? No. Was it the Italians? No. “Get those tanks outta here and pronto, we got a magma pool creeping up our butts!” There it is approaching and widening, bubbling and roaring, and having this incredible heat.

Footnoted, Stevens’ dissent in Citizens United, Letter from Thomas Jefferson to Tom Logan (Nov. 12, 1816), in The Works of Thomas Jefferson 42, 44 (P. Ford ed. 1905):

“I hope we shall . . . crush in [its] birth the aristocracy of our monied corporations which dare already to challenge our government to a trial of strength and bid defiance to the laws of our country”

“We should ask for the grace to weep for this world, which does not recognize the path to peace. To weep for those who live for war and have the cynicism to deny it. God weeps; Jesus weeps.” […]

“Young people, like well-planted trees, can be firmly rooted in the soil of history,” he said, “and growing heavenward in one another’s company, can daily turn the polluted air of hatred into the oxygen of fraternity.”

Diaries, 1922. “… Fretful that my life till now has been merely marking time, has progressed at most in the sense that decay progresses in a rotten tooth. I have not shown the faintest firmness of resolve in the conduct of my life. It was as if I, like everyone else, had been given a point from which to prolong the radius of a circle, and had then, like everyone else, to describe my perfect circle round this point. Instead, I was forever starting my radius only constantly to be forced at once to break it off. (Examples: piano, violin, languages, Germanics, anti-Zionism, Zionism, Hebrew, gardening, carpentering, writing, marriage attempts, an apartment of my own.) The centre of my imaginary circle bristles with the beginnings of radii, there is no room left for a new attempt; no room means old age and weak nerves, and never to make another attempt means the end. If I sometimes prolonged the radius a little farther than usual, in the case of my law studies, say, or engagements, everything was made worse rather than better because of this little extra distance.”

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Does anyone here know what a “”hawthorn peggle” is? (haw) (etym.)

Another division’s recycling pile. Satan’s Frozen Tears in a pile. Dropped calls are in a pile. Woman on the call-in show that morning: why

Are there thoughts that are devils and thoughts that are angels? If devils and angels are thoughts, and only thoughts, does that make them more or less real, as devils and angels? Are there thoughts that are miracles? Thoughts that are muscles? Perception is thought. Myself is thought. (Myself is chemical combinations, a sunday school of such combinations.) Recycling is good: Satan’s tears returned to Satan’s tear ducts”. Factories produce like vast calving icebergs our possessions. “Dirty Car”: a twitter handle. Cephalopod & Cephalopod (name of a distinguished law practice) Noah & Nicolas Christian and and rather than crossing toward it he enters it.

Only after having entered it, visually checking to his right. Centered manhole cover, five feet eight inches from eyehole, announces its point of manufacture as nation of India: manhole cover akilter too (as I have a Picasso Eye): has been given same painted double lines of the street, but turned clockwise ten degrees since it was painted. if artists painted the street (if the streets were painted to maximize beauty rather than safety.) Flaubert envisioned government by artists. (How would a government operate that try and achieved the beautifulness of the state?) At what point will dreams peer out of my perception, it is asked, when will I live in a dream? Not in this… this perception. In a barrel tub. (As I try to live in a dream, that woman from the call-in show appears, tells it to get back in its dream hole. Back!)

Experience of blindness the previous night as I reached for a water glass, which was before the dream of the five turtles (the parking lot having been inundated and transposed to the area beneath my window, three swimming turtles and two large tortoises appeared, bumping about the cement embankments. The two large ones came to rest side by side in a parking space, while the smaller ones managed to find a nearby rock to be sunned upon) having risen from bed.

It was not an excess of darkness but of light: the glass I reached for had a blinding sun behind it: “This is how it will be.” Maybe with hearing, maybe with sight. Perhaps I look to my right at a big tree: no cars are coming from the direction of the big tree, or they are yet at a distance. What a video game I am in, perception is a video game it is a salad bowl, big wooden half orb over my face, often oregano scented, in which, with the tongs of my brains’ ends, I hunt for tomato and cheese parts. Video game in which I hunt for what is not the game, in which one strives to forget too the part about “winning”, accumulating points. Here I go on describing the bowl, which I’ve learned ought not to be washed out: simply wipe out your wooden salad bowl with a cloth, so as to season it over time. What I see is the visual embodiment of what I see with, according to one set of ideas.

Nothing could season this street, this perfectly rational baked-in sameness. How could you season something with its lid on? Bolted on? How could you season this Eden of absence of sewage, this dragon hoard of absence of badness? (Here comes one of the dragons now, walking a cute-seeming non-barking sub-dragon, both perfectly nice persons of their type) at the street’s other side where the opposing condo division’s driveway, the sidewalk, and street all intersect. That is an important place which my foot finds all the time and which “has it all” (the perfect foot destination: “Bahamas Crook” I should call it when I make my map: Aerie de Metarsie, where feet will come to brood and nest and stain the sheer face of rock. The other named location is the Saddle Rock)–it has: my foot, the road, the driveway, the corner, the side walk, the median between the sidewalk and road; at no point do all these elements so effortlessly come together, mingle with such unseamed completeness as at this point. Like the north star, this point “has it all.”

I recognize a bumpersticker. To left, another division’s recycling pile, this one at the foot of a tree — flat bottomed boxes and bags tipping off, resting uneasily on, its grey dry looking roots.

ngrams: Emerson,Thoreau
Balzac, Flaubert, Stendhal
Charles Dickens,Jane Austen,Thomas Hardy

ngrams: Charles Ives; Charles Ives, Hart Crane; Charles Ives, Hart Crane, Charlie Chaplin; Charles Ives, Hart Crane, Marianne Moore; Theodore Dreiser, Hart Crane, Marianne Moore; Theodore Dreiser, Hart Crane, Marianne Moore, Sherwood Anderson, William Faulkner

Vergil, Fourth Eclogue:

Sicelides musae, paulo maiora canamus!/ non omnis arbusta iuvant humilesque myricae;/ si canimus silvus, silvae sint consule dignae.

Prose translation, Moses Hadas and Thomas Suits:

Muses of Sicily, let us sing matters somewhat more momentous. Not everyone takes pleasure in groves and lowly tamarisks. If it is forests we sing, let the forests be worthy of a consul.