Thomas Henry Huxley

That my personality is the surest thing I know may be true. But the attempt to conceive what it is leads me into mere verbal subtleties. I have champed up all that chaff about the ego and the non-ego, noumena and phenomena, and all the rest of it, too often not to know that in attempting even to think of these questions, the human intellect flounders at once out of its depth...

Monday, December 24, 2007

Love Itself, Leonard Cohen

The light came through the window,
straight from the sun above,
and so inside my little room
there plunged the rays of Love.

In streams of light I clearly saw
the dust you seldom see,
out of which The Nameless makes
a name for one like me.

I'll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
until it reached an open door -
then Love Itself...
Love Itself was gone.

All busy in the sunlight
the flecks did float and dance,
and I was tumbled up with them
in formless circumstance.

I'll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
until it reached an open door -
then Love Itself
Love Itself was gone.

Then I came back from where I'd been.
My room, it looked the same -
but there was nothing left between
The Nameless and the name.

All busy in the sunlight
the flecks did float and dance,
and I was tumbled up with them
in formless circumstance.

I'll try to say a little more:
Love went on and on
until it reached an open door -
then Love Itself,
Love Itself was gone.

Love Itself was gone.

Nicolae


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