Ah, that childhood life of mine, the open road in and out of
season, supernaturally sober, not giving a damn any more than
the best of beggars, proud to have no country, no friends: what
stupidity that was!--And I've just begun to realize it!

--I was right to despise those gay blades who'd never pass up a
little ass-grabbing, parasites of the cleanness and healthiness
of "our women," now that women seldom see eye-to-eye with us.

I was right in all my disdains--because I'm escaping!
I'm escaping!
Let me explain.

Even yesterday, I was sighing: "Good grief! aren't there enough
of us damned ones down here!  I know them all.  We always recog-
nize each other; we disgust each other.  Charity's unknown among
us.  But we're polite; our relations with people are quite correct."
Is this astonishing?  People! businessmen, nitwits!--We're not dis-
graced.--But the elect, how would they recieve us?  Look, these are
types who are bad-temperedd and blissful, the phoney elect, since
you've got to have guts or humility to approach them.  They're the
only elect.  They're no sprinklers of holy water!

Since I've picked up two cents' worth of smarts--that's soon spent!
--I can see that my anxieties come from not having figured out soon
enough that we're in the Western World.  The Western swamps!  Not 
that I think the light diminished, the forms anemis, the momentum
slowed down. . . . Well! look how my spirit insists on taking the 
blame for all the brutal developments which the Spirit's suffered 
since the eclips of the East. . . . It's really willing, my spirit!

. . . My two cents' worth of reason's spent!--The spirit's in charge,
it wants me to be in the Western World.  I'd have to silence it to
end up with my own conclusions.

I said to hell with the glories of martyrs, the sparkle of art, the
pride of inventors, the eagerness of exploiters.  I was going back
to the East and to the first and everlasting wisdom.--It seems it's
a dream of crass laziness.

Still, I hardly dreamed of the pleasure of escaping modern suffer-
ing.  I didn't have the bastard wisdom of the Koran in mind.--But
isn't there genuine torture in the fact that, ever since that mani-
festo of science, Christianity, man's been kidding himself, convin-
cing himself of the obvious, inflating himself with the thrill of 
repeating the proofs, and just can't live any other way? Finicky
torture, stupid--the root of my own psychic meanderings.  Nature 
might get bored, perhaps!  Mr.Play-It-Safe was born the same day as
Christ.

Isn't it because we're cultivating fog? We eat fever with our watery
vegetables.  And drunkenness! and tobacco! and ignorance! and self-
sacrifice!--And all that's a long shot from the wit and wisdom of 
the East, the primeval fatherland, isn't it?  What good's a modern
world if poisons like that are invented?

The clergyman will say: We see your point.  But you're talking about
Eden.  Not a thing in the history of Western civilization for you.
--That's true.  It's Eden I was thinking of! What's that got to do
with my dream, that purity of ancient races!

The philosophers:  The world is ageless.  The human race, quite 
simply, moves along.  You're in the Western World, but you're free
to live in your East, as ancient as you care to be--and quite com-
fortably.  Never say die.  Philosophers, you're stuck with your West.

O my soul, watch out.  No violent schemes of salvation.  Get busy!--
Ah, science doesn't move fast enough for us!

--But I notice my soul's asleep.

If it kept staying wide awake from now on, we'd soon reach the truth
which may be surrounding us with its weeping angels. . .!  If it'd 
been awake up to this point, I wouldn't have given in to my devasta-
ting instincts at a moment I'll never forget. . .!  If it's always
been awake, I'd be flying high on the breezes of wisdom. . .!

O purity! purity!

It's this moment of awakening that's given me the vision of purity!
--Through spirit we hasten to God!

Shattering piece of luck!