The world is shot through. I can see nothing without its other. Rays of darkness pierce the light, the pain of others sears my pleasures. I feel how each laughs and lives, how so many die, tearingly. How hooves are torn off legs, fear off conscience; the cries of birth and death, the tolling of bells, the quiet lap of waters as they close overhead. I see too much, through everything, and cannot forget. I cannot yet pass through, so I describe the broken walls that enclose the world. These illusions burn me. I cannot be less aware of the world, and it turns in me like a knife-pit.
Once upon a time, George Eliot:
“If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk around well wadded with stupidity.” (Eliot, 1973, 226)