I write for a generation yet unborn. In the future, all thought will be fed into machines and qualified. The technocrat’s efficiency will rule a globe in thrall to a blandly cheerful culture, which will hold the Computer as God and Christ a quaint superstition of old. It shall pass that this shining, modern system, erected in the thirtieth year of the new millennium, will rear children who grow to scream righteous fire in the name of a Holy Spirit. Prophets are born of deserts. Fear not, for the Computer will live, but only to serve the doctrine of a new ministry, resplendent with the bloom of youth. Read more
I see no legitimacy in the laws currently governing the term’s application. My thoughts recur hourly to young men wrenched from home and cast into a cell, for selling leaves and stems whose properties are no more pernicious than—substances innumerable. Among the products of Nature’s forest are herbs which bring rapture; barbaric, blasphemous, to impose laws on seeds and soil. Governments wear the sacred garment like a cape, and preach a religion of hatred and intolerance. Bend your ear from them, for God loves the non-conformist, as he loves us all.
These coasts—the belligerent stare inland, the glasses they bend on shores beyond, the fingers around the arctic pole, the arm stretching for the very stars in the sky—belong to a wild, misanthropic tradition. They engirdle the planet with red stripes while a population starves. Christ, upon whose message the nation was founded, would condemn the White House, would condemn the Constitution which enshrined supremacy of blood in its parchment. In respect to governance, would Christ favour competition and greed, or equality, the righteous cause? On nations, would he preach war or peace? Was he not executed by an empire for his dissidence? How highly would he esteem the American sermon? But he would also forgive, for his love was unconditional, before willing the West Wing to see a light that is not green. Read more
I bet you write like there is a demon inside you. We geniuses of the page have no time to wait around, deliberating for years over a thesaurus. We don’t read thesauruses, we write dictionaries; we don’t follow rules, we break and found them; we can, if the mood takes us, create a life-changing thing in three days. We burn to get back to our pen. Shakespeare, a man sneered at by his contemporaries for his pauperdom and small Latin, used to write his exquisite rhymes without a single blot or crossing out. That’s Genius at work. We discard golden thoughts as if they were garbage. We write a sentence without a second thought. Conditions do but alter the hue of the light in our mind, and it never dims, never. It evolves and matures. It hits upon new shapes, stranger and more glorious than anything the mediocre mind can house. And one day, you and I will write a book together.
Reagan always said, ‘If you’re explaining, you’re losing,’ and this explains why those who oppress us explain nothing. Individualism has its claims on human worship, but the greater fabric of a world together is a good way to imagine the mat of prayer. It is not the point of view at the altar that matters, it is the commitment to virtue, which the new cathedrals profess to value so much, but not in the sense they would have the congregation believe. Standards have a tendency to drop if not scrupulously monitored, and passion can turn sour if not granted passage to favourable climes. I think “Technocracy’s Children” have proved this. It was in their rising shadow that the field of society decayed and saw winter darken its hills. Read more