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    Tonight, in dreams, I did not exist. I am not cold to the pleasurable contemplation of solipsism - yet, the reverse? There are the Virgils, the Flauberts, the Wildes and Coleridges - there simply was no I. I was not an obscure fold in the fabric, a vibration of the threads of which the Universe is constituted. I was a harmonic, an interruption. I was, simply, not. I felt, in that moment, closer to Rimbaud than I ever have in reading his verse. This is my solitary delight in an otherwise sterile evening. I am aware of the pain in my throat - the empiricists and the idealists, the Carthaginians and the Romans, the virus and the blood? There is an awareness in their motions, unconscious, that they are at play for the sake of some mute Center. There is also a knowledge, implicit in the organism, that this farce is folly, for It cannot condescend to laugh.

    Rhetoric - what value, this? To order my impressions, to slide into accord with Logos? I cannot say, but I am compelled no less. Meanings contrived or derived, so many sweet sophistries - I would prefer, always,  an empty sapphic to a swollen treatise. I have more interest in the toil of the Bacchanate, so despised, than the motives of hand and heart that compelled Kant. Truths - trooths, he-he! Swinburne is a maligned saint - he was an aesthete, and suffers in posterity. Ideas are often beautiful, but are almost always incidental. Beauty - the aim, always the aim. Dandies before didactics, de Quincey before Descartes, beauty before utility.

The "Artistic Temperament" (Part the first?
Implicit in such a title, at least in my experience, are Victorian conjectures, executed by dilettantes what languor in kitsch, crushed velvet drawing rooms. Are my dips into prosody's pots and pantries, chafing with smell of remote lilacs and lavender, the culmination of societal factors, Menckensian biology, or sly Gnostical transfusions? Inevitably one will divest, for my sake, peculiar attributable types on the basis of my answer to such a question - "pray, is he life-affirming? prone to mysticism? does he offer anything in the way of insights, ornament to our humanist cliches?" I should hope not! Rather than answer, rather than submit for your perusal a leaf-like security (or scaffolding) for such gay abstractions as "free will," or, mayhap even, "determinism,"  rather, I shall relegate to absurdity the very question itself so that it may occupy the scribblings of lesser publications by saying that such speculations are pointless, (sadly) perennial, and philistinal. Cannot formidable Flaubert subsist with his few moments of delicate repose, unabused by such pedantry? Perhaps, eh, perhaps not. Art, as do all things, swims (to Man's great unease) in that potentially regressive, yet no less potent relativistic plasma; perhaps its movements are so cumbersome and seldom as to give the impression of amber, but it drifts all the same. "L'art pour l'art!" - indeed! Let us resume this hardy ethos, abandoning Camus, Orwell - numerous others - to their weary ilk.

Introductory Remarks

Hello, my name is Alex. It seems appropriate, in the spirit of these sorts of things, whatever things I may be referring to, to preface this little exploration in failed and ailing erudition. Herein one shall see my distaste for democracy, displayed in solitary and megalomaniacal adventures into social commentary and, perhaps, to use a Vidalism, "bookchat." It will not, most likely, be updated regularly, but as a matter of caprice. One shall, inevitably, be battered by mosaics of verbal musculature and, more often, shrill ad hominem. As such, I appreciate any and all patience on the part of potential readers. With that said, adieu!