Sunday, January 16, 2011

A Disease of Language

We are insensate molecules, assembled from the accidental code engraved upon our genes.
Mud that sat up.
Chemicals mingle in our sediment and in their interactions and combustions we suppose we feel, suppose we love.
We reproduce, mathematically predictable as spores within a petri dish.
We function briefly, then subside once more to the unknowing silt.
We are a blind contingency, an unimportant restlessness of dirt and yet Rossetti paints his dead Elizabeth, head tilted back on her impossibly slim throat, eyes closed against the golden light surrounding her.
Clay looks on clay, and understands that it is beautiful.
Through us, the cosmos gazes on itself, adores itself, breaks its own heart.
Through us, matter stares slack-jawed at its own star-dusted countenance and knows, incredulously, that it knows.
And knows that it is universe.
This is a segment from Alan Moore's "Snakes and Ladders" visual monologue, reprinted and illustrated by Eddie Campbell in A Disease of Language.  Disease is a collection of two psychogeographic monologues ("Snakes" and "The Birthing Caul") and an extended interview with Campbell, all of which serve to paint a pretty amazing picture of Moore the Hierophant and Magician.

It's also worth noting, I think, that A Disease of Language (the title of which comes from one of Aleister Crowley's definitions of magic) is pretty damn beautiful in general.  A bit overwhelming, maybe, but anything else would be a disappointment.  I can't recommend this highly enough.

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