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cott was hunting everywhere for
genius, he was looking for it in the detritus of the street, overturning cans
of rubbish in England, asking strangers. It turned
out to work as a come-on line with a few foreigners,
but why not: Do you have genius? The conversation could splinter in any number
of directions after that and hed come away looking as if he knew
something. After all, he had his work to draw on. Not that they noticed, not
that
they understood. But still.
Genius didnt really make itself clear. It was never apparent.
It was a kind of crown some wore and others envied. Or didnt much consider
or didnt much care about. It depended, of course, on their DNA, the sperm
and the egg that made them. Genius, small and precarious, was only what it was.
An infinitesimal speck in the cosmos, compared to the infinite weight of everything
that surrounded it, breathing and dead. You could say it was almost not, all
be told, that it was not there nor should it ever be. Of this he was entirely
unsure. And it was time he killed by thinking this, time which would not return
again. It all dissolves into poetry, in the
end, he thought, it is all sentence fragments and head-pictures and scents
of things now gone, which can soothe a rotting brain. Yes, the brain has line
breaks and caesuras. Things which drift off and stop, things which achieve more
clarity, things which forever disappear from every horizon. Memory, he thought,
is the only genius that matters. Every hour we are drifting into it.
So, in the end, it did not really matter. He had no business looking
for genius, it was a thing he
would not find. It was the invisible world on a blade
of grass, smaller. It was dust motes circling Mount Everest. It was some
quality not-quality, who knew? The size of the universe is something we cannot
grasp. Scott said this on more than one occasion. An answer is no more no less
than itself. It slides into nothingness after it has been spoken. That might
be genius. That might be, in which case everything is coated with invisible
tracings, and everything is as de Selby postulated.
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