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Let’s take a little intermission, a brief respite from the first octave of my pensees. Yes, they made me pensive and I hurried to press them around.
If you’ve read them, then, I guess, you know where the wind blows – aside from two pieces about arts and my sloppy memory, I am trying to pass on you my vision of the world. Which is probably ineffable and better done in my writings, but I gave it a try anyway. 
Yet, I can’t do it better than Plato, who in his Republic compared us to men imprisoned in a dark cave. These men can't see the real world, all that they see are its projections, shadows on the back wall of the cave. That’s us. Our consciousness is that wall, our perception of reality is those projections, hence the thing which we call reality is mere a shadow of Reality. And I have some more to tell, but this will be the next octave.

As for the arts, and especially Flannery O’Connor and her Works, I’d say if she would be Frederick Chopin and I admit I love his music, I even had built a story around it (The Forth Waltz.) So if Flannery is Frederic, then Bela is The Clash. Or, maybe Clash is too glamorous for Bela, then remember that pre-punk band from the seventies, The Sweet? Yeah, Bela is The Sweet:

“The Bus-Ter, Bus-Ter, Bloccck Bussster!!! Ahh-haaaaaa!!!”

Alright, in the next octave I am going to go further.

From the heart of darkness, sincerely,
Bela Abel
 


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