I get so bored of the prosaic mind, of trying to explain — of the so-called sober rationalist and his manic analytic philosophy. I’m sick to death the one who teases apart and describes reality, who puts words to things and ideas. Sometimes he feels like a curse. Give me a stronger liquor please. 200 proof. No more camomile tea please.
And don’t get me started on the poet! What a self-intoxicated liar and fabulist — he makes me sick! He is so drunk on his own state of mind; he actually thinks his word-dreams are real. He wants to short circuit all reason, he takes no responsibility for the tangible — he prefers intoxication to clear thinking.
The poet and the prose writer are at war inside, like a jealous wife and husband. One would like everything to be impersonal and precise, the other is addicted to sensation, to subjectivity. One is trying to speak the language of the human being, the other of God. One is unbearably reductive, the other totally otherworldly and hubristic.
When your theory is too good, too symmetrical, to perfect — it is highly suspicious. When that same is too full of fanciful metaphor, it might be equally tainted. Elaboration feels fraudulent; but the hardboiled is so dammed boring.
It’s a painful human predicament, to live in two hemispheres, two worlds. We live there all the time, in an eternal dialectic struggle. There is no way out of the struggle, except though total surrender to the process. If we were completely content with ourselves, then would would remain at the level of an amoeba — perhaps even an amoeba experiences existential struggle and divine discontent. Creation is born though friction.
Even though this is a confession of a certain distortion — perhaps the real peace is not in the peace in accepting the struggle, just as silence is framed by noise. But don’t get me on a theory of music: as soon as I start to build a model of harmony, I will see its flaws and then begin to add distortion.
Some days the prosaic, model building person is ascendance, on other day it is the Dionysian drunk on the wildness of nature’s display. Of course they need to live together, and their extremes need to be tempered. The middle way is the best. Of course, the the middle way doesn’t mean being stuck in the ‘grey’ middle, without any vivid contrast or clash of ideas. One need to embody the polarities within the middle way, by experiencing them, by experimenting them, by venturing out to the edges. We need to go to the edges without going over the edges — to bring the visionary substance to the world, without becoming raving madmen on street corners shouting about God.
Actually a real poet is highly empiric, very objective within his subjectivity. Similarly, the true philosopher must attempt to express the inexpressible, to go beyond the mere description — he must flirt with the poetic to be credible and resonant. The poet and the philosopher are married, even if they fight. It is a ‘flowery’ battle as the Taoists say about love. It is never static, never boring — or to be more precise: if it gets boring it just means that another love storm is on the horizon.