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26 juin 2006 @ 19:42
Dear mendaciloquent,

Allow me to offer my apologies for not replying to your letter sooner. I assure you, the delay in response was not due to working too hard -- you know I would never do that -- but rather owed itself to a mood that overtook me, grappled me like a ruddy wrestler-boy, and would not let me go until it had its way with me. Languorous and melancholy did I become this past weekend, bashfully retiring from the company of friends, stubbornly eschewing the nourishment of food, and frivolously surrendering to the bottle. It wasn't until vespers this day that the spell broke, and now I write this letter to you as I sit on the veranda, wearing the apple blossom print silk kimono you adore so much, sipping gingerly from a cup of violet flower tea. I am in a weakened state, my friend, but I have much to share with you that I experienced during the denouement of my malaise.

Insofar as anything can be clear when one spends his days, as do I, lounging in a deck chair, sipping wine, and watching the inconstant shapes of the clouds, the following manifested itself pellucidly to me during my recent fit: the only true things are those which are utterly useless. Usefulness and utility are spoken of far too highly these days, mendaciloquent. All the time I hear men who are otherwise learned and of good breeding complain of the vagaries of metaphysics and praise the virtues of industriousness and utility. They claim that usefulness is the yardstick by which all men ought to measure the truth, and they point to such recent inventions as the automobile and the "radio" as proof that the veracity of our ideas about Nature is reflected in, and can only be reflected in, the Mastery we have over her. But these men traffic in falsehoods, and they do Nature violence which can only be appeased by reconciliation.

Truth, mendaciloquent, is beauty intellectually represented. It is that which resists mastery, that which refuses to yield to and buckle under the demands of usefulness. It is the normative element in and of nature-bound, sensible experience. It is that which is completely free and which suffers insult in being called "matter." Indeed, the only way to appease nature, such as we have insulted her, is by means of the spirit of beauty.

Surely this insight will be difficult to accept for day laborers and others who participate in the idiocy of work. For those who care only for Sundays and paychecks, my words will remain completely incomprehensible. And I would be sorry if they understood me. I hope my words may so bewilder them that they see nothing but characters on the page, whilst the pushbrooms and shovels they call their minds are torn hither and thither by the caged anger within. For I tell you now, anything useful is false. The only truth is l'inutile, the useless!

I had to pause just now from writing as I was overcome with a fit of coughing. Oh, mendaciloquent! I feel so anemic -- yet so strangely sanguine at the same time. Though my constitution is still far too weak even to consume a petit pâtisserie, I feel, deep inside, a shift in the balance of my Humours. This singular insight into the sublime truth of all things that are useless and beautiful will establish the foundation upon which I plan to construct a baroque, metaphysical edifice. And it is my hope that you, my friend, will help me construct this tower of thought, a tower which floats above the ground, constructed of dried flowers and arranged into pointillistic displays -- a philosophy of French impressionism!

Ahh, again I had to pause so that I might sip more fresh fruit juice. I must reinvigorate my blood, mendaciloquent. I must make my body as strong as my spirit, so that it may assist (much as you, with your able hands, will assist me) in completing this endeavor. Therefore, I shall bring this letter to a close. Already I hear mother in the other room, ready soon to take me to bed. (She threatens to take away my allowance if I do not get proper rest!)

Until next time, fair friend,
I am yours,
Forever and ever,