It's all so easy, easy to read, unrolling an endless sheet of paper, mapped out chapter by chapter, unrolling like a scroll. Contained between the covers, the unaccountable being that's in him, a silent message from the sinister, dreaming that he keeps himself awake.
For the joy of making no effort whatsoever, for whatever the mind finds within itself, desperately cheerfull in letters and stories from the newspaper. He made up stories of imaginary boats, drifting in unknown waters, painted an appropriate nautical blue. There must be something wrong with you.
As the man in the middle his magnet responds, charging with radiant energies, swelling and heaving ambivalence, the fluxing of currents and tides. Playing an immense improvisation and falling, into sickness and madness and death, ideas become islands he reads in the waves. O I remember
those delightful days.
He does not want to return to the hard rock at the root of creation, the hazy shore of the holy oblivion, from another voyager's account of coral reefs and coconut, of tatooed chiefs and cannibals, of sand and sea water and dancing girls and technicolor palm trees. He does not want to return to the maddening knots of kinship, where feelings will sink in the swirling sea scum, with the strange shapes of what we have become. "There is
no place but the universe. There is no limit but the limitless. There is no bottom but the bottomless."