Yesterday I was reading poetry and annotating some unconscious images which sometimes I found insane. But I just come to realize that those images are the matrix of a mythopoeic imagination which has vanished from our rational age.
They are uncertain paths that lead into the depths of me (or you) …. And I remember Goethe’s words : “now let me dare to open wide the gate / Past which men’s steps have ever flinching trod.” Or the second part of Faust too, was more than a literary exercise, it’s a link in the Golden Chain of Homer, which has existed from the beginnings of philosophical alchemy down to Nietzsche’s Zarathoustra.
It’s really an unpopular and dangerous voyage of discovery, particularly at this time when I needed a point of support in this world and I may say that my family and my professional work were that to me. It was most essential for me to have a normal life in the real world as a counterpoise to that strange inner world.
My family and my profession remained the base to which I could always return, assuring me that I was an actually existing, ordinary person.
Nietzsche had lost the ground under his feet because he possessed nothing more than the inner world of his thoughts–which incidentally possessed him more than he it. He was uprooted and hovered above the earth, and therefore he succumbed to exaggeration and irreality.
For me, such irreality was the quintessence of horror, for I aimed, after all, at this world and this life. No matter how deeply absorbed or how blown about I was, I always knew that everything I was experiencing was ultimately directed at this real life of mine. I meant to meet its obligations and fulfill its meanings.
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