If anything exists it is incomprehensible. If anything is comprehensible it is incommunicable. That quote from Gorgias precedes, and serves to divide, Charles Willeford's The Burnt Orange Heresy, which I reread this weekend. I reread it to put things in perspective.
Some days you wake up and it seems like all the things you want for yourself, everything you've been working for is out of your reach, and only getting farther and farther away. I've been feeling like that a lot recently, so I went to the library and picked up Willeford's book. The story serves to remind you what kind of person you can become if you want something too much. Even though I knew what was coming, I still laughed when Figueras finally got into Debierue's studio and found out what the great genius had spent his life doing. Hell, I'm smirking thinking about it now. I think it's one of my all time favorite moments in fiction.
Someday, I will commission a bronze statue of Debierue, and at the base will be a plaque with Gorgias' conclusions about existence.
"Who is Debierue?" People will ask. "No. One." I will tell them.
"What is that quote supposed to mean?" They will continue. "Nothing." I will say, and shrug.
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