Thursday, June 15, 2017

a more beautiful question





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...

you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human
beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of
growing:the mystery which happens only and whenever we are faithful to
ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it
becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now;and now is much too busy being a
little more than everything to seem anything,catastrophic included.

... 

Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by
somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human
being;somebody who said to those near him,when his fingers would not hold a
brush 'tie it into my hand'-

nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small
or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or
unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints
childrening, innocent spontaneous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and
impossibly such a garden,but actually flowers which breasts are among the very
mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted; brain over heart, surface:nowhere
hating or to fear;shadow, mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames
of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely
opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and
yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or
pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing
ecstasies of inexistence; never to rest and never to have:only to grow.

Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.


–E. E. Cummings
introduction from Collected Poems, excerpt




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