..."we continue to behave more or less like the people we are, even on a pilgrimage"...
The reason I cannot stop trying:
..."It is an open secret among pilgrims and other theoreticians of this traveling life that you become addicted to the horizon"...
So:
..."I will gaze at the moon / and cleanse my heart"...
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I have not understood much of Anne Carson's pilgrim essay, Kinds of Water. There are snatches of Spanish flung in it, and unfinished ideas, and epigrams beyond my wit to concretely solve. But I think I take away the important things...or, at least, some of the important things. Like life being a pilgrimage through apocalyptic beauty with strangers . One of those strangers being your own hungry bewildered self. The parasite Shame, and the pain you inflict upon yourself to unpry him. Never quite reaching the end. Mystery.
It helped.
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