(no subject)

[proximoception]

The end won't feel like the end. The moments just before may, but they shouldn't, because they aren't. That doesn't mean the end doesn't exist, or that it can't be felt. But it means that we feel it within moments that are middles, that are an entirely different sort of moment-molecule. It, too, is a picture on our mantel. Is a "like." But we'll want that similitude to be really, really plausible, since so much depends on our relationship to it.

To maim Yeats: We're looking for the face we'll have after the world is gone.

Comments

[nightspore.livejournal.com]

Not so sure about the Yeats. Surer about the wheelbarrow. It looks like to still works.

[proximoception.livejournal.com]

I don't think I was thinking of it but do see what you mean. Though our death is more of a non-present reality that might be made present enough by comparing what can be known about it with many things that are like or unlike it.

Which is of course quite possibly what Williams meant about writing, with that poem, but does take away the "Of Mere Being"-ish and/or Heideggerian reliance on the directly given of its actually-about-the-wheelbarrow level.

Yeah, the Yeats line comes across as sounding like an appropriately Yeatsian wish for some occult existence after death. Whoops! Caveat Yeatsor.