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“In the Hut go the women, the mad, chattering ones and the weird contemplative ones, and the good ones. The good ones always look for the good life and so poets end up with crazy chattering types or weird contemplative types who appear and disappear as in a dream. Pop, Poof. Zap.”
“The mad ones have the ambition though of becoming muses or vital to the interests of the poet and so perform magically on a poets spirit for awhile. And the weird ones weave a spell over them that’s hard to pin down. ‘I am Her!’ the poet thinks, alarmed and attracted at the same time. “She is Me.” And so the poet is hooked by some mysterious mixture nature has concocted to see who will win the vast contest; the priest or the poet. Or, the warrior. Or, the King. Who knows. In this world everything is mixed up. One day these crazy chattering types might be presidents whose craziness is marked down as oracular and worth studying.”
“But what’s she got? That’s the acid test.”
“Go ask the old men who have been through these mazes. They will tell you that a woman who can give pleasure is desirable only from a distance. Strive for the good ones. Make the wampum to keep the good ones.”
“No, for the old men the pleasure is only memory rather than in the pores on the instant as it is with the young men. There are pleasures that cavort with a young man’s brain and he carries it day and night until he is dried out on the table of the insatiable.”
“Do they become the monks on their next journey?”
“Some become the monks because they know now that pleasure is unimportant. A man must go through a whole channel of tests to find this out but when he does he rarely returns. So perhaps some do become monks. A few are the crazed killer types. More monks than that type.”
“And so is it true that the world becomes divided between the monks and the crazed killers?”
“Oh it happens, no question but we have more resource and diversity. When that is bankrupted look out.”
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