ODE TO MEANNESS

People, especially these days, are often scared. The humility, the rock-deep silence, which is tolerated deepens its depths, if it can no longer reveal its inner personality to anyone else, because it can remain faithful to itself, and while it is out there chased, vilified, trampled, like greedy, tenacious worm-bugs the homeless, the penniless, the crowd of Little People-as a winged door, what is forever unseen can no longer be revealed to any one.

It would be good in this confusion of Nineveh, Babel, where the strong still oppresses the helpless weak, if they looked deep into the heart of the deceived and betrayed, and there they might see the one essence that was rarely shown. But I can't do that. As many men are so many outrages, and we have long since ceased to be dust and ashes, a lowly pile of mud!

Being can no longer put order, except as a common judge The Executioner-death! And it is long past the hardworking, childish wonder; that in the manner of inventors, scientists and polymathists, intention and talent should give birth to a direction of development, not false-lying demagoguery!

Perhaps the silent scribes, who have been deliberately silenced by this wicked century, are carefully tumbling forward in the junk-cheap filth of tomorrows, sometimes through bonfire, spit in the face, sometimes through open laughter-shaming-even repeatedly failing, and yet always more bitterly standing on two legs, stooping-if manuscripts and proofreaders thrown into the trash - bin might have as much right to survive as any other a scandal book!