Monday February 18th 2013
Après yesterday's interlude of gainful employment,
old age and physical exhaustion prevented the mind from doing very much
more than staring at a wall, occasionally at a ceiling and sometimes at
its own remarkably unattractive feet. Not necessarily a bad thing, because
such a torpor does grant a
haphazardness, or senility, to mental process that permits doting upon
strands of thought that otherwise might be rounded up, put in boxes and
then shipped off to the knackers yard, or consumer of last resort.
And thank goodness the subject matter was an heroic figure, not some encrusted
barnacle of ignoble motive, stuck to a rock, a Limpet, hands on his
hips, waiting for his mail order crystallized ginger, wrinkle remover,
and assorted scented candles. Otherwise today might have
deteriorated toward rampage and ennui.
The distinction made by the category material and
idea, is wholly fabricated. It begins at the cocktail party, wanders into the university quarrel, carries
through to the pages of books, or bibles, and then you see the man in the
short pants and bow tie contemplating the question of reward. In
short, feed him a peanut and he'll tell you what you want to hear.
Then to go all high and mighty, refuse the peanut, so the invisible might
benefit, becomes the beginning of any definition of Saint. And I have
to say that something like a Nobel Prize, or a Pulitzer, or an Emmy, or
second place for Marmalade at the County Fair or poetry recital, just
doesn't substitute for Saint. Pictures today are from E. Shand, who has been
hiking in Paris.