Wise men have regarded the earth as a tragedy, a farce, even an illusionist's trick but all, if they are truly wise and not merely intellectual rapists, recognize that it is certainly some kind of stage in which we all play roles, most of us being very poorly coached and totally unrehearsed before the curtain rises. There is nothing I can do to make things any easier for any of us, and you will have to accept being addressed by a disembodied voice just as I accept the compulsion to speak out even though I am painfully aware that I am talking to an invisible, perhaps nonexistent audience.
Worse yet, I am at the moment very conscious of a squirrel-in Central Park, just off Sixty-eighth Street, in New York City-that is leaping from one tree to another, and I think that happens on the night of April 23 (or is it the morning of April 24?), but fitting the squirrel together with Fernando Poo is, for the present, beyond my powers. For instance, I am not even sure who I am, and my embarrassment on that matter mates me wonder if you will believe anything I reveal.
I happen to know all the details about what happened, but I have no idea how to recount them in a manner that will make sense to most readers. By the time international affairs returned to their normal cold-war level, some wits were calling it the most tasteless April Fool's joke in history. On April 1, the world's great powers came closer to nuclear war than ever before, all because of an obscure island named Fernando Poo. It was the year when they finally immanentized the Eschaton. The Earth quakes and the Heavens raffle the beasts of nature flock together and the nations of men flock apart volcanoes usher up heat while elsewhere water becomes ice and melts and then on other days it just rains. The Purple Sage opened his mouth and moved his tongue and so spate to them and he said:
0 kommentar(er)
