Stella Audrey | English and Art History Student "With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?" - Oscar Wilde I post art over at The Impossible Artist
You can also find me on Instagram: @abook_is_agarden
“Oh, Caesonia, I knew that men felt anguish, but I didn’t know what that word, anguish, meant. Like everyone else I fancied it was a sickness of the mind — no more. But no, it’s my body that’s in pain. Pain everywhere, in my chest, in my legs and arms. Even my skin is raw, my head is buzzing, I feel like vomiting. But worst of all this queer taste in my mouth. Not blood, or death, or fever, but a mixture of all three. I’ve only to stir my tongue, and the world goes black, and everyone looks… horrible. How hard, how cruel it is, this process of becoming a man!”
“How would you like to live billions upon billions of lives?” Paul asked. “There’s a fabric of legends for you! Think of all those experiences, the wisdom they’d bring. But wisdom tempers love, doesn’t it? And it puts a new shape on hate. How can you tell what’s ruthless unless you’ve plumbed the depths of both cruelty and kindness? You should fear me, Mother. I am the Kwisatz Haderach.”
Jessica tried to swallow in a dry throat. Presently, she said: “Once you denied to me that you were the Kwisatz Haderach.”
Paul shook his head. “I can deny nothing anymore.”
“And yet, […] if I was strong enough, and patient enough… […] …I know what kind of life I’d have. I wouldn’t make an experiment out of my life: I would be the experiment of my life. Yes, I know what passion would fill me with all its power. Before, I was too young. I got in the way. Now I know that acting and loving and suffering is living, of course, but it’s living only in so far as you can be transparent and accept your fate, like the unique reflection of a rainbow of joys and passions which is the me for everyone.”
In spite of all the refinements of civilization that conspired to make art—the dizzying perfection of the string quartet or the sprawling grandeur of Frangonard’s canvases—beauty was savage. It was as dangerous and lawless as the earth had been eons before man had one single coherent thought in his head or wrote codes of conduct on tablets of clay. Beauty was a Savage Garden.”
“And yet, […] if I was strong enough, and patient enough… […] …I know what kind of life I’d have. I wouldn’t make an experiment out of my life: I would be the experiment of my life. Yes, I know what passion would fill me with all its power. Before, I was too young. I got in the way. Now I know that acting and loving and suffering is living, of course, but it’s living only in so far as you can be transparent and accept your fate, like the unique reflection of a rainbow of joys and passions which is the me for everyone.”