The Voice before the Void: Arcana, Story, Poetry

Crane’s beautiful, haunting rendering of the Epicurean Paradox.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“A man adrift on a slim spar”

Stephen Crane

A man adrift on a slim spar

A horizon smaller than the rim of a bottle

Tented waves rearing lashy dark points

The near whine of froth in circles.

God is cold.

The incessant raise and swing of the sea

And growl after growl of crest

The sinkings, green, seething, endless

The upheaval half-completed.

God is cold.

The seas are in the hollow of Thy Hand

Oceans may be turned to a spray

Raining down through the stars

Because of a gesture of pity toward a babe.

Oceans may become grey ashes

Die with a long moan and a roar

Amid the tumult of the fishes

And the cries of the ships

Because The Hand beckons the mice.

A horizon smaller than a doomed assassin’s cap

Inky, surging tumults

A reeling, drunken sky and no sky

A pale hand sliding from a polished spar.

God is cold.

The puff of a coat imprisoning air

A face kissing the water-death

A weary slow sway of a lost hand

And the sea, the moving sea, the sea.

God is cold.

Our five senses are paltry; whole universes can and must exist beyond our ability to perceive them. Perhaps we should be grateful for our ignorance.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“From Beyond”

H.P. Lovecraft

Horrible beyond conception was the change which had taken place in my best friend, Crawford Tillinghast. I had not seen him since that day, two months and a half before, when he told me toward what goal his physical and metaphysical researches were leading; when he had answered my awed and almost frightened remonstrances by driving me from his laboratory and his house in a burst of fanatical rage. I had known that he now remained mostly shut in the attic laboratory with that accursed electrical machine, eating little and excluding even the servants, but I had not thought that a brief period of ten weeks could so alter and disfigure any human creature. It is not pleasant to see a stout man suddenly grown thin, and it is even worse when the baggy skin becomes yellowed or grayed, the eyes sunken, circled, and uncannily glowing, the forehead veined and corrugated, and the hands tremulous and twitching. And if added to this there be a repellent unkemptness, a wild disorder of dress, a bushiness of dark hair white at the roots, and an unchecked growth of white beard on a face once clean-shaven, the cumulative effect is quite shocking. But such was the aspect of Crawford Tilllinghast on the night his half coherent message brought me to his door after my weeks of exile; such was the specter that trembled as it admitted me, candle in hand, and glanced furtively over its shoulder as if fearful of unseen things in the ancient, lonely house set back from Benevolent Street.

That Crawford Tilinghast should ever have studied science and philosophy was a mistake. These things should be left to the frigid and impersonal investigator for they offer two equally tragic alternatives to the man of feeling and action; despair, if he fail in his quest, and terrors unutterable and unimaginable if he succeed. Tillinghast had once been the prey of failure, solitary and melancholy; but now I knew, with nauseating fears of my own, that he was the prey of success. I had indeed warned him ten weeks before, when he burst forth with his tale of what he felt himself about to discover. He had been flushed and excited then, talking in a high and unnatural, though always pedantic, voice.

“What do we know,” he had said, “of the world and the universe about us? Our means of receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of their absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the boundlessly complex cosmos, yet other beings with wider, stronger, or different range of senses might not only see very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter, energy, and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses we have. I have always believed that such strange, inaccessible worlds exist at our very elbows, and now I believe I have found a way to break down the barriers. I am not joking. Within twenty-four hours that machine near the table will generate waves acting on unrecognized sense organs that exist in us as atrophied or rudimentary vestiges. Those waves will open up to us many vistas unknown to man and several unknown to anything we consider organic life. We shall see that at which dogs howl in the dark, and that at which cats prick up their ears after midnight. We shall see these things, and other things which no breathing creature has yet seen. We shall overleap time, space, and dimensions, and without bodily motion peer to the bottom of creation.”

When Tillinghast said these things I remonstrated, for I knew him well enough to be frightened rather than amused; but he was a fanatic,

Science!

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Wronger than wrong”

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Michael Shermer has described as “wronger than wrong” the mistake addressed in what he calls “Asimov’s axiom,” after the noted author Isaac Asimov, who discussed the issue in his book of essays, The Relativity of Wrong. A statement that equates two errors is “wronger than wrong” when one of the errors is clearly more wrong than the other. As Asimov put it:

“When people thought the earth was flat, they were wrong. When people thought the earth was spherical, they were wrong. But if you think that thinking the earth is spherical is just as wrong as thinking the earth is flat, then your view is wronger than both of them put together.”

Asimov explains that science is both progressive and cumulative. Even though scientific theories are later proven wrong, the degree of their wrongness attenuates with time as they are modified in response to the mistakes of the past. For example, data collected from satellite measurements shows precisely how the Earth’s shape differs from a perfect sphere.

Shermer states that being wronger than wrong is actually worse than being “not even wrong” (that is, being unfalsifiable).

According to John Jenkins, who reviewed The Relativity of Wrong, the title essay of Asimov’s book is the one “which I think is important both for understanding Asimov’s thinking about science and for arming oneself against the inevitable anti-science attack that one often hears — [that] theories are always preliminary and science really doesn’t ‘know’ anything.”

“Not even wrong”

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The phrase “not even wrong” is generally attributed to theoretical physicist Wolfgang Pauli, who was known for his colorful objections to incorrect or sloppy thinking. Rudolf Peierls documents an instance in which “a friend showed Pauli the paper of a young physicist which he suspected was not of great value but on which he wanted Pauli’s views. Pauli remarked sadly, ‘It is not even wrong.'” This is often also quoted as “It is not only not right, it is not even wrong,” or “Das ist nicht nur nicht richtig, es ist nicht einmal falsch!” Peierls remarks that quite a few apocryphal stories of this kind have been circulated and mentions that he listed only the ones personally vouched by him. He also quotes another example when Pauli replied to Lev Landau, “What you said was so confused that one could not tell whether it was nonsense or not.”

It has come to be used to describe any argument that purports to be scientific but fails at some fundamental level, usually in that it cannot be falsified by experiment (i.e., tested with the possibility of being rejected) or cannot be used to make predictions about the natural world.

The phrase “not even wrong” is often used to describe pseudoscience or bad science and is considered derogatory.

The cool, calm, serene omnipotence of darkness: an original fragment.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Within the scope of shadowscape”

The Voice before the Void

Within the scope of shadowscape —

Within the edge between light and lightlessness —

Shadows cover with calm.

Serenity, cool, abides beyond light, glaring.

All is dark; light but passes through occasionally striking some object, bouncing back, bouncing around, but it continues to careen endlessly and eventually~inevitably passes on, and all is dark.

When I coalesced into me from the elements of the universe, it was in darkness;

When I dissipate back into the universe, it will be in darkness.

When the shadow falls across my face: I am; I am not.

Light passes on and outward;

Dark remains, in defeat of time.

Summer Vacation Special:

What do we seek at ten o’clock at night in Rivington Hall?

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Ten O’Clock at Night at Rivington Hall”

anonymous

It was with great pleasure that I heard, about a year ago, from my old friend Henry Danvers that he had succeeded to the Rivington Hall estate and an income of some thousands a year, on the death of a distant relation. Harry and I were school and college friends; and though of late years our paths in life had widely diverged, the old affection never slumbered. We met rarely, but we kept up a more constant correspondence than is usual even among brothers.

Our last meeting was on the occasion of his marriage to a charming girl, to whom he had long been attached; soon after which event he left the _____ Hussars, and went to live in Wales, near his wife’s family, till the death of his far-away cousin, old Luke Danvers, of Rivington Hall, put him in possession of a fine estate and ample income. Old Danvers died abroad, in some German town, where he had led a life of absolute seclusion for several years—nearly forty, I think. Harry came to London on business connected with the succession, and spent most of his time at my chambers in the Temple. His parting words to me were a cordial invitation to visit him at the old Hall as soon as he had made it habitable. It had been shut up since the late owner, a man of eccentric habits, retired somewhat suddenly abroad, and would probably require to be put in thorough repair before it could be equal to the modern ideas of luxury or even comfort.

After his first letter, full of enthusiastic descriptions of the quaint beauty of the old Hall and plans for its immediate restoration, months passed without my hearing anything of or from Harry Danvers. I went on my plodding way as a struggling barrister, gaining inch by inch of the steep uphill path which leads to ease and competency in the profession I had chosen. But busy as I was, I found time to wonder at Harry’s silence; and at length I wrote, having, unexpectedly, a week or two of leisure, to propose passing my holiday with him. I addressed my letter to Rivington Hall, and the post brought me an answer in due course. The tone of Harry’s letter struck me very painfully. It was as affectionate as ever, but there was a deep melancholy pervading it, which was scarcely to be accounted for, even by the news which it contained, that Mrs. Danvers was even now scarcely recovered from a long and serious illness. It ended thus: “I shall be only too happy to see you, old fellow, if you can put up with indifferent accommodation and dull company; and I hope you will come as soon as you can, for the moment Helen is able to travel we are going abroad.” The letter was dated “Woodfield, Rivington.” I packed up at once, telegraphed to say I would be with him on the morrow, and I started by the morning express.

The autumn day was drawing to a close as I jumped out of the train at the station, and found Harry waiting for me. I was quite shocked by the change in my friend’s appearance and manner. Instead of greeting me with his usual cheery laugh, he came up as if he were meeting at a funeral, wrung my hand with scarcely a word, and only replied with the shortest sentences to my inquiries about his wife’s health.

We drove about three miles out of the town, past a lodge with fine old iron gates, and a long park-wall, within which at some distance I could just discern the gables and chimneys of a large handsome house.

“That’s it!” he said, pointing with his whip. “We live at Woodfield.”

“So I saw by your letter. But why did you not carry out your plans for the restoration of the Hall?” I asked.

“Don’t speak of it!” he said sharply. “And while I think of it, Burley, I must beg of you not to make any allusion to the Hall before Helen. It upsets her completely.”

“Why, what is the matter with it?

Sex vs. religion, per Blake.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“The Garden of Love”

William Blake

I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And “Thou shalt not” writ over the door;

So I turned to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be;

And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys and desires.

The hopes of man versus the edicts of eternity: one of the great, great short stories.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“A Legend of Old Egypt”

Bolesław Prus

translated from the Polish by Christopher Kasparek

Behold, how vain are human hopes before the order of the world; behold, how vain they are before the decrees that have been written in fiery signs upon the heavens by the Eternal!…

Hundred-year-old Ramses, mighty ruler of Egypt, was breathing his last. The chest of the potentate before whose voice millions had quaked half a century, had been invested by a stifling incubus, and it drank the blood from his heart, the strength from his arm, and at times even the consciousness from his brain. The great pharaoh lay like a fallen cedar upon the skin of an Indian tiger, having covered his legs with the triumphal cloak of an Ethiopian king. And stern even with himself, he summoned the wisest physician from the Temple of Karnak and said:

“I know that you have powerful medicines that either kill or cure at once. Prepare me one proper to my illness, and let this end once and for all… one way or the other.”

The physician hesitated.

“Consider, Ramses,” he whispered, “since your descent from the high heavens the Nile has flooded a hundred times; can I give you a medicine that would be uncertain even for the youngest of your warriors?”

Ramses sat up on the bed.

“I must be very ill, priest,” he cried, “if you dare give me advice! Be silent and do my bidding. There lives, after all, my thirty-year-old grandson and successor, Horus. And Egypt cannot have a ruler who is unable to mount a chariot and lift a spear.”

When the priest, with trembling hand, gave him the terrible potion, Ramses drank it down as a thirsty man drinks a cup of water; then he summoned the most renowned astrologer in Thebes and bade him say frankly what the stars showed.

“Saturn has united with the moon,” replied the sage, “which portends the death of a member of your dynasty, Ramses. You did ill to drink the medicine today, for human plans are vain before the decrees that the Eternal writes upon the heavens.”

“Naturally, the stars have foretold my death,” replied Ramses. “And when might it happen?” he asked the physician.

“Before sunrise, Ramses, either you will be hale as a rhinoceros or your sacred ring will be on Horus’ hand.”

“Conduct Horus,” said Ramses in a voice growing faint, “to the hall of the pharaohs; let him wait there for my last words and for the ring, that there be not a moment’s interruption in the exercise of power.”

Horus wept (he had a compassionate heart) over his grandfather’s approaching death; but as there could be no interruption in the exercise of power, he went to the hall of the pharaohs, surrounded by a large crowd of attendants.

He seated himself on the porch whose marble steps ran down to the river and, full of indefinable sadness, surveyed the countryside.

The Moon, beside which glowed the ominous star Saturn, was just gilding the bronze waters of the Nile, painting the shadows of the gigantic pyramids upon meadows and gardens, and illuminating the entire valley for leagues around. Despite the late hour of the night, lamps burned in huts and buildings, and the populace had come out of their homes and beneath the open heavens. Boats ranged the Nile, thick as on a holiday; in palm forests, along the water’s edge, in marketplaces, in streets, and adjacent to Ramses’ palace there undulated a countless throng. Notwithstanding this, there was such silence that Horus could hear the rustle of water reeds and the plaintive howls of hyenas seeking prey.

“Why are they gathering like this?” Horus asked a courtier,

Baseball Season Special:

As quintessential a piece of American literature as Moby-Dick, and as dark in its humor and ethos: arrogance leads to downfall, and life is so reliably disappointing as to be comedy.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic, Sung in the Year 1888”

Ernest Thayer

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon of the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast.

They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that–

We’d put even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,

There was Johnnie safe at second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped–

“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on the stern and distant shore.

“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand;

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “fraud”;

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed;

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh,

In all your terrible solitude and torment, you have found a kindred soul in Poe.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Alone”

Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view—