Long before the sun came up, I heard murmurs from the other room, thought I was dreaming, then realized that the symposium was still going. It seems Cat was still talking to Ishmael, while I (apparently) had passed out from fatigue and Grigio. I didn’t get everything (though I’m told a full transcription can be found somewhere in the clutter (below)). The recorders were running, but I needed no tape to startle awake at this particular wisdom afloat, which I share:
the re-minting of our words (of our thoughts and our deeds even) won’t resolve for us finally the relationship between inner and outer. That relationship is always to be achieved: the painted brass coin is as good as gold for as long as it carries value between us; I’m prepared to say that God dwells in the idol so long as the idol is an object of praise.
(I want to say: If truth is no longer in beauty’s keeping, shame on us for persisting in calling her by that name. We must educate ourselves into a more refined aesthetic!)
[. . . the unanticipated boon of a blog; I’m a wonder-wounded hearer . . . ]