In other news, the weather is immoderately nice again. Mmm. Glass bead game is taking a turn for the transcendent. It makes me realize what a conscious act it is sometimes for me to believe in the story of a book (or tv show or movie for that matter) to buy into it, to suspend disbelief, to want it to be good and poetic and meaningful. In the same time I think foje that I could be religious if I really wanted to be, by just willingly surrendering myself to the sense of narrative mystery in the world and some particular religious text, and never get out of that subjected sense of believing. In fact I did skim a loose translation of the tao te ching the other day, and it was beautiful stuff.
But, Keats be damned, I have a hard time really believing truth and beauty necessarily share anything but adjacent places in snappy aphorisms. I fear precisely that sense of "everything fitting together" with so much perfection and unity that works so magically in fiction, when I smell it in the real world. I haven't yet found any good mental tools to combat my pessimism that it is a powerful siren-hallucination.