An old friend once told me something that gave me great comfort. Something he had read. He said that Mozart, Beethoven, and Chopin never died. They simply became music.
The problem, Bernard, is that what you and I do is so complicated. We practice witchcraft. We speak the right words. Then we create life itself… out of chaos.
It’s not about giving the guests what you think they want. No, that’s simple. The titillation, horror, elation… They’re parlor tricks. The guests don’t return for the obvious things we do, the garish things. They come back because of the subtleties, the details. They come back because they discover something they imagine no on had ever noticed before, something they’ve fallen in love with. They’re not looking for a story that tells them who they are. They already know who they are. They’re here because they want a glimpse of who they could be.
When the Great Library burned, the first 10,000 years of stories were reduced to ash. But those stories never really perished, they became a new story. The story of the fire itself. Of man’s urge to take a thing of beauty and strike the match.
We humans are alone in this world for a reason. We murdered and butchered anything that challenged our primacy.
The human mind, Bernard, is not some golden benchmark glimmering on some green and distant hill. No, it is a foul, pestilent corruption.