By orwell on
Sunday, August 24, 2003
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Two old friends meet for a few words
What is this, my world? My friend?,
A mystery within another mystery.
Ah indeed a mystery, then what of philosophy these days? What of her noble calling, her receiving in our hands, of the torch flame touched in the passing away of Night.
Answerer:Ah good friend, good friend, she makes no such demands any more; now she merely whispers that we must observe ourselves and compare ourselves to ever other selfs opinion without judgement, in this little space filled in with a life others prescibe for us!.
Questioner:Why, You have become very cynical these days?, Of course I am no philosopher, neither are you of course; yet despite this modern Philosophy, one I presume must still ask what is it to lead a life which is true unto itself, in contrast to one that is merely good in itself.
Answerer: No, you are wrong about my cynical tendencies these days. One can become as I, from being around in time to long, or rather being in the wrong relation to time for to great a duration.
Questioner: Your begining to speak like a weary old philospher, or a one eyed poet from another time!.
Answerer: Enough good Friend! but on your later question there is no choice; for when one knows truth one knows what is good, and what is supremely beautiful.
Questioner:I see..and I wait...
Answerer:No you don't my friend, for night is coming again.
And Home we must go before that time.