The other morning I was thinking to myself
, "I'd really like to find a nice bit of driftwood
to put in my room." Later that day, walking by the water, I came across just such a piece of driftwood, lying on the path. It was an exquisitely crafted artifact
if I had ever seen one, and its creator
was the ceaselessly churning
ocean, whose numberless caressing hands
had fashioned this work of art, blindly and yet perfectly
(The river never makes a mistake
). The whorls and currents of the ocean appeared to be caught in the smooth wood, frozen fluid dynamics
. An artifact without an artificer
, other than the whole of the process of Nature
, the book that writes itself
I picked up the piece of driftwood and noticed that it had been used by someone to scrape dogshit off their shoe.
I mean, there's the entire Human Condition, right there.