Shouting “Eureka!” In A Crowded Library
What a time for an epiphany.
Right in the middle of a tricky job
Is not when you’d choose
For the world to roll back its darkening veil
And show you the Great Secret we all suspect
Everyone else knows but which has hitherto been hidden from us.
Archimedes, the lucky bugger,
Had his moment of blinding clarity
Mid-bath. His trickiest task
Was to cover the necessaries with a towel –
Which, incidentally, he conspicuously failed to do.
Still, I guess it beats working for a living.
‘It’s a bizarre but wonderful feeling, to arrive dead center of a target you didn’t even know you were aiming for.’ – Lois McMaster Bujold, author’s afterword to Cordelia’s Honor
Recall Now The Roses There will be a time to cry.
There will be a time to remember that you’re the only one
Who went home alone.
There will be a time to go twelve rounds with yourself
And lose on points.
There will be a time to second-guess every glance,
Every laugh, every conversation and every half-heard whisper.
There will be a time to call yourself a cunt.
But in this place
Of vast, terrifying beauty that seems
To us more-or-less intelligent primates
The last word in permanence but
Has only been for a few blinks
Of the great geologic eye;
And under these stars
Shining their impossibly ancient light,
Light that was born before the first
Rocks of Earth collided and now
Rests orphaned in your tear-damp eyes;
And with these people
Who, despite their happy, normal, love-filled lives
Can still find the time
To remind you that their world at least
Would be the poorer for your absence;
In this place,
Under these stars,
With these people;
This is a time to hold on tight to
“I am happy. And that’s okay.”
Man: The Amnesiac Watchmaker
“God simplifies nothing.”
“God shuts down debate.”
“God is inimical to reason.”
“God leads to fear. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate…leads to suffering.”
True, true, true…true.
“God is not real.”
Just because we invented god,
Does that mean it’s not real?
Mull over Macbeth, argue about Achilles;
Hubris and glorylust, mortality and anger,
Fiction or no these are real questions
Worthy of real quarrels and quibbles and quiet mediations
And fierce refutations of the overly lexical classical scholar,
The Freudian peek into the Myrmidon tent
Or the Bacon-ite, Marlowe-ite, whoever-else-ite
Who thinks, “What does he know of Scotland
Who only Warwickshire knows?”
(Reductio ad absurdum works better in comedy. Divine or otherwise. Ed.)
But in the end, we return to the bush
Which we have been beating around:
We must not forget it was us who made god
And not the other way round.
“Man had created God in his own image, not the other way around. He had done it through sheer terror, and who could blame him? Unfortunately he had made too good a job. The god he had invented was just as cruel and careless as man himself. Not a deity to whom one should seriously address a prayer.” – Richard Herley, The Penal Colony