The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than hee
Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secre, and in my choyce
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, then to serve in Heav’n.
— John Milton, Paradise Lost [lines:254-263]
“The work of the philosophical policeman,” replied the man in blue, “is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea parties to detect pessimists…”
— G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday
So long as living without ignorance is my choice, then let it be so, and I shall gladly suffer the pangs of enlightenment.
Though my world without is overbearing and limited, the world within, within my mind, is a vast unending ocean. Here I may lose myself, and go to those parts of the ocean that the wind takes me, and, possibly, dive into them, deep down into the deep blue. I may find that leviathan, and swim with it, while the mass of the sea drowns out those petty distractions which are found on dry land. Here, I write. I write of myself, of my thoughts, of great thinkers, their lives and thoughts, and stories, maybe short, maybe long. Whatever comes to me I will write.
I am Milton Syme.