You can throw away that truss! Because mon semblable, mon frere, there is nothing but an aching emptiness at the center of things, alleluia! and not even aching any more, no, the void is happy as the day is long. That is the secret that those ancients possessed, that is the truth that will make us free, you and me. Say it three times in the morning and three times at night: There is no god, there never was, and never will be, world without end, amen.
Would you deny it, old Adamite, Louie I? Then let me recommend you to your own poem, the poem you claimed not to understand. I understand it: The idol is empty; his speech is an imposture. There is no Boal, my friend only the whisperer within, putting your words in His mouth. A farrago of anthropomorphism. Deny it! Not all your piety or wit, my boy!
|About the Author
Disch's Atlantic article on the death of intelligent sf lamented the loss of such writers as Samuel R. Delany and Joanna Russ to academia. He also has a review of Marilyn Hacker's poetry in his Castle of Indolence.