Kurt Bell

A life of courage, joy and independence.

Principals

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I’d rather possess that which I cannot own. A few things beyond the corruption of time, influence or bias. The comfort of self discipline. The certainty of doubt. The sobriety of looking death in the eye.

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Checking under the Christmas tree and it looks like I didn’t get the box of temperance I didn’t ask for. Thank you, Santa.

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I had an interesting talk with a friend today where I confessed my nihilism, and found comfort in not giving a damn. Such is how the serpent consumes its own tail.

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My first allegiance is to doubt
My last alliance is certitude

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The homunculus is no less an organ of the body than the liver or the spleen. *

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The Feast of Offal is not only an expression of folly and the consequence of unprincipaled living, but also a screen and distraction from the fact of Indifference, which everywhere pervades.

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My homunculus resides in a barrel within my head. Though my outward man works, votes and pays taxes, the inner self sleeps with his back in a crook, and looks out at the sunrise through a gaping round orifice, begging passerby to not block out the sun. He walks the avenues of my mind with bare feet and a torn shirt, or shirtless if the weather is fine. While I attend meetings, my homunculus meanders alone, or with dogs, in search of an honest man. When I dine he resists hunger with a crust of bread, and a pot of cheese should he wish a feast. One day I will become that better man, that ragged, lean and honest self; when I at last put aside this vain pursuit of living, and choose instead to simply live. *

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My homunculus has a ledger. It’s a crude journal of inaccurate impressions, vague suppositions and conclusions drawn of far too little experience or fact. This book has a section for good and evil, and even another for right and wrong. The entries are all drawn in bright crayon, as they require color to gain emphasis, being otherwise of so little merit. My homunculus is quite proud of what he’s made. He even shares and compares with others, drawing and offering criticism, which he hardly likes. But what more or better could he use to gauge the world? His life is so short, and so imperfect – though he prefers to not be reminded of this fact – that he holds to what he’s got with more certitude than merit. That’s his fault, though don’t expect him to confess it. Few ever do. *

Citations

* Included in “My Muse is a Corpse”

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