Stayed home from work until late in the afternoon today. I’m supposed to get a phone by UPS and according to the note left on the door yesterday I have to be there to sign for it. Most of the time I read: short stories by John Crowley, all superb except for “Novelty” which I don’t get the point of; short stories by Andre Dubus, who is continuing to annoy me; some GW; and the real winner, “Murder in the Cathedral” by T.S. Eliot.

“you defer to facts” this by Thomas a Becket, the character at least, whose thoughts revolve around Action and Suffering.

Occasionally it is given to the sons of man to write or say a few words that are so obviously true and yet so brilliantly put that those words remain in the minds of people whose existences overlap not at all with that of the author. this is not, of course, a refutation of idealism (none exist). But such transmissions (there is a word; i will get back to it) are sweet suggestions of something that extends beyond our short lives and limited ken, a small shipment of truth that floats on the sea of words that out of the infinitudes of the library of babel contains a vindication…

It does not much matter where one begins reading. There are better places to start than others, and chronological order is often the most satisfying to the linear side of the mind. But it isn’t terribly important if when reading T.S. Eliot you know who Philomel was or what hyacinths represented to various cultures. If you do then the poem will make a great deal more sense, true; if you do not then the words themselves will stick with you (since the Wasteland is if nothing else beautifully written) and become your new symbols. Such is it with transmission and psychopomp, titles for two tracks on a disc by the tea party. The first meant little to me, the second nearly nothing but they both now have certain connotations that I would do an injustice to if I tried to explain without the music.

But the real point is deferring to facts. I often feel useless, and this may be why.