O. K. Bouwsma Does the Forms

Imagine, for this purpose, a museum–a museum, deep in calm, fixed in breathlessness, done in silence, clothed in invisibility, awful, laid away in heaven.  And the walls thereof are purest essence, some quint-essence, some tri-essence, but none semi-essence.  If senescence is no wall, for neither is olderness nor youngerness any ness at all, all is evermore and never the less.  And of what essence and what essences are those walls?  Of all heavenlinessences are they and of brightlinessence the beaminest.  Essences participating in essence, like May-girls around May-pole enribboned, and enribboning one another, they ring-round this conjugation of hyper-supers…This is the museum of quiddities, of whatnesses in their highest nest, tucked away, ensconced, waiting for refiners defining, so fine they are.  The museum of none-such such-and-suches.

Let us enter…

John Locke Lectures, “The Flux”,

7 responses

  1. I was wondering where to look to find the traces of O.K. Bouwsma’s love of Joyce. I thought maybe he’d written some essays on the Wake (has he?), but I guess I should have been looking here…

  2. Pibroch by Ted Hughes

    The sea cries with its meaningless voice
    Treating alike its dead and its living,
    Probably bored with the appearance of heaven
    After so many millions of nights without sleep,
    Without purpose, without self-deception.

    Stone likewise. A pebble is imprisoned
    Like nothing in the Universe.
    Created for black sleep. Or growing
    Conscious of the sun’s red spot occasionally,
    Then dreaming it is the foetus of God.

    Over the stone rushes the wind
    Able to mingle with nothing,
    Like the hearing of the blind stone itself.
    Or turns, as if the stone’s mind came feeling
    A fantasy of directions.

    Drinking the sea and eating the rock
    A tree struggles to make leaves-
    An old woman fallen from space
    Unprepared for these conditions.
    She hangs on, because her mind’s gone completely.

    Minute after minute, aeon after aeon,
    Nothing lets up or develops.
    And this is neither a bad variant nor a tryout.
    This is where the staring angels go through.
    This is where all the stars bow down.

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