not in the days of Adam and Eve, but when Adam
was alone; when there was no smoke and color was

fine, not with the refinement
of early civilization art, but because

of its originality; with nothing to modify it but the

mist that went up, obliqueness was a variation

of the perpendicular, plain to see and

to account for: it is no
longer that; nor did the blue-red-yellow band

of incandescence that was color keep its stripe: it also is one of

those things into which much that is peculiar can be

read; complexity is not a crime, but carry

it to the point of murkiness
and nothing is plain. Complexity,

moreover, that has been committed to darkness, instead of

granting itself to be the pestilence that it is, moves all a-

bout as if to bewilder us with the dismal

fallacy that insistence
is the measure of achievement and that all

truth must be dark. Principally throat, sophistication is as it al-

ways has been--at the antipodes from the init-

ial great truths. "Part of it was crawling, part of it

was about to crawl, the rest
was torpid in its lair." In the short-legged, fit-

ful advance, the gurgling and all the minutiae--we have the


multitude of feet. To what purpose! Truth is no Apollo

Belvedere, no formal thing. The wave may go over it if it likes.

Know that it will be there when it says,
"I shall be there when the wave has gone by."

--Marianne Moore

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