The infernal smile of people on the bright side. The demon in the light is worse than the one in the dark. The night is more compassionate, more relenting, a woman at the stake of her dreamfire, recanting the pain she once confessed to. If I carry the night in my heart like the black flame of a truer fire, and see in the daylilies less of the mystery than I see in the crowns of the moonlit waterstars, it is not to villify one of my eyes at the expense of the other, but to enter my solitude so deeply that all that remains is the clarity. People never meet themselves because they’re afraid of strangers. And you can’t know what you haven’t been. It’s just as important to look at the water and see the banks flow now and again, as it is to let your ears speak for themselves. Everything is an interpretation, a painting the mind makes that you must live in, so careful what you paint. The mind mixes moonlight and blood on its palette to quicken the lips with shadows. And every fool’s a genius. And now we come to the dark energy, dark matter of the issue, the black snowflake in a pillow of angel down that refuses to thaw in the dream of the sun like a Bedouin under the eyelids of a desert, lost in the heat, far away, discrete. Legend has it that three nails crucified Christ, two forged in heaven; one, in hell. And that’s the one that didn’t hurt.
PATRICK WHITE
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