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Polaris, v. 1, issue 4, September 1940
Page 18
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18 POLARIS as a shadow. To capture it on paper would give it substance, would breathe into it a glowing, vibrant life the mind alone cannot conceive. But even while we seek that ultimate beauty, we know our task is an impossible one. You see the paradox -- life is meaningless, for we know we cannot reach our goal -- yet we insist on giving existence a meaning for as long as the search is possible to us. "We weave for ever our little dreams, and build our unsubstantial worlds, but the material we use is dust. And we know it. The spectre of reality always looms over and greater in our minds. Reality is cruel; on human standards, at least. And you and I, Jack -- we are human. A faith in ourselves and our futile, meaningless scribblings -- that is all there is, all there can be. "There is more to it?" he asked. "Yes, of course." I arose and put on the second movement. It started, and almost immediately Milton amazed me by leaping upright in his chair. "Jack! You heard that?" I nodded, bewildered. "Of course. I've heard it many times." And then I added inanely, "Pretty, isn't it?" "Pretty? Pretty! He...almost caught it!" And then Milton said simply, "How close he must have been. How very close." "Play it again," he commanded. "Put it back to the beginning, I mean." And I did, and he listened. "What wonderful beauty." He was speechless for a moment as it ended. "You heard it -- that recurring, questing strain? He couldn't finish even it, that single strain, so elusive is the beauty. As it is now, it's like a thought unfinished, like an unrhymed couplet. It--it should end like this." And then he hummed the chord again, adding to it a few more notes, instead of continuing into the main theme. It was strangely beautiful. Then, all at once, Milton was on his feet, pacing the floor madly, words tumbling from his mouth in a rushing torrent. "That is beauty. It isn't of this world. It's bigger. It's of the Universe, the stars and the deeps of space. It's living and dying, and more. So much more, transcending for a moment the bounds of Earth. It's the pulse of Chaos that beats in every inch of the universe; its' the sum of matter and death and all there is or ever will be. "Even when I think of it, I feel my mind becoming too large for my body, too big for this tiny world. It soars to beyond the stars and above them, yet I feel restricted, hampered and bound on every side by intangible bounds. I want to stand above the burning stars, and in my love of beauty tear the wheeling worlds from place." He stopped then and looked at me. "I'm sorry," he said. There was silence for a few moments, for I could think of nothing to say. Then he spoke again. "Do you mind if I leave you now? There is something I must write tonight." And quickly he left. THE END - - - - Read the English fan magazines.
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18 POLARIS as a shadow. To capture it on paper would give it substance, would breathe into it a glowing, vibrant life the mind alone cannot conceive. But even while we seek that ultimate beauty, we know our task is an impossible one. You see the paradox -- life is meaningless, for we know we cannot reach our goal -- yet we insist on giving existence a meaning for as long as the search is possible to us. "We weave for ever our little dreams, and build our unsubstantial worlds, but the material we use is dust. And we know it. The spectre of reality always looms over and greater in our minds. Reality is cruel; on human standards, at least. And you and I, Jack -- we are human. A faith in ourselves and our futile, meaningless scribblings -- that is all there is, all there can be. "There is more to it?" he asked. "Yes, of course." I arose and put on the second movement. It started, and almost immediately Milton amazed me by leaping upright in his chair. "Jack! You heard that?" I nodded, bewildered. "Of course. I've heard it many times." And then I added inanely, "Pretty, isn't it?" "Pretty? Pretty! He...almost caught it!" And then Milton said simply, "How close he must have been. How very close." "Play it again," he commanded. "Put it back to the beginning, I mean." And I did, and he listened. "What wonderful beauty." He was speechless for a moment as it ended. "You heard it -- that recurring, questing strain? He couldn't finish even it, that single strain, so elusive is the beauty. As it is now, it's like a thought unfinished, like an unrhymed couplet. It--it should end like this." And then he hummed the chord again, adding to it a few more notes, instead of continuing into the main theme. It was strangely beautiful. Then, all at once, Milton was on his feet, pacing the floor madly, words tumbling from his mouth in a rushing torrent. "That is beauty. It isn't of this world. It's bigger. It's of the Universe, the stars and the deeps of space. It's living and dying, and more. So much more, transcending for a moment the bounds of Earth. It's the pulse of Chaos that beats in every inch of the universe; its' the sum of matter and death and all there is or ever will be. "Even when I think of it, I feel my mind becoming too large for my body, too big for this tiny world. It soars to beyond the stars and above them, yet I feel restricted, hampered and bound on every side by intangible bounds. I want to stand above the burning stars, and in my love of beauty tear the wheeling worlds from place." He stopped then and looked at me. "I'm sorry," he said. There was silence for a few moments, for I could think of nothing to say. Then he spoke again. "Do you mind if I leave you now? There is something I must write tonight." And quickly he left. THE END - - - - Read the English fan magazines.
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