The Preface appears like a single painted surface held under shifting light. Aphorisms stand as bright figures, each polished and upright, each throwing a crooked shadow that overlaps the next. Beauty walks through the sentences with a serene, dangerous grace, smiling as it cuts. Meaning glides and beads across the page, never settling, leaving silver traces behind. Morality drifts like a scent, sometimes sharp, sometimes sweet, never anchored to a source. The artist flickers as a presence without a face, a mask worn by the work itself. Readers feel watched, teased, implicated. The language laughs softly, and the laughter stings. Hours warm and darken as one reads, as though the book opens a downward passage where pressure increases and curiosity sweetens.
At the end, uselessness blooms like a strange star, loosening the grip of purpose and instruction. Art floats free, radiant and unaccountable, refusing discipline, utility, improvement. Uniform shapes and flattened souls briefly surface, parodies of efficiency, then dissolve back into ornament and excess. Pleasure brushes decay; brilliance trembles beside rot. Beneath the polish, sigils glow faintly, promising knowledge without command, initiation without law. The Preface holds everything at once, a single field of fire and shimmer, leaving the reader lighter, unsettled, and quietly exalted, carrying away the sense that beauty, irony, and freedom belong to the same burning hour.
No comments:
Post a Comment