A Disease of LanguageAlan Moore, Eddie Campbell
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|status||Copy #1 (754): in
|genre||Literature and Fiction » Poetry|
|publish date||February 15, 2008|
|popularity||checked out 15 time(s)|
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” We are insensate molecules, assembled from the accidental code engraved upon our genes.
Mud that sat up.
Chemicals mingle in our sediment and in their interactions and combustions we suppose we feel, suppose we love.
We reproduce, mathematically predictable as spores within a petri dish.
We function briefly, then subside once more to the unknowing silt.
We are a blind contingency, an unimportant restlessness of dirt and yet Rossetti paints his dead Elizabeth, head tilted back on her impossibly slim throat, eyes closed against the golden light surrounding her.
Clay looks on clay, and understands that it is beautiful.
Through us, the cosmos gazes on itself, adores itself, breaks its own heart.
Through us, matter stares slack-jawed at its own star-dusted countenance and knows, incredulously, that it knows.
And knows that it is universe.”