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Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of remembrance.

How telling that people have defined the human to be the common element & the site where everyone can find & recognize each other. One has to learn to realize that it is precisely the human that makes us lonely.

We do not acquire wealth by letting something remain & wilt in our hands but only by letting everything pass through their grasp as if through the festive gate of return & homecoming. Our hands ought not to be a coffin for us but a bed sheltering the twilight slumber & dreams of the things held there, out of whose depths their dearest secrets speak.

Been doing immersion reading with the ebook & also the audiobook version of this narrated by Ethan Hawke, which has been great so far!

The body remains a house unaware of its rooms.

Left off on Chapter 1 Translation & Cluster Sentences

Left off on Chapter 2 Arguments

Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, & my eyes swim with the remembrance, but then a resistless, almost frantic impulse urged me forward, I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit.

This strangely are our souls constructed, & by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin…
It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, & her immutable laws had decreed my utter & terrible destruction.

Love how Walt Whitman is described here:
“Except in the hope of better effect, he took up no new subjects, nor altered rhapsodic tenor of his voice here, nor denied any effort of catalog, rhetoric, eroticism, nor trimmed his cadence, nor muted his thunder or sweetness.”