The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

He died in her sleep.

(or: She died in his sleep.)

'For vices all have different ends,
But virtue still to virtue tends.'
The long and narrow road, catastrophe theory's fragility of good things,
beset on every side by the efflorescence, fecundity, of vice; if Heaven is
pure substance, Vice is impure inscription; if Heaven is continuous, Vice
is discrete; if Heaven is discrete, Vice is the heart of indiscretion

He died in their sleep. In their longing for rest, he was one of the
forgotten, his body withering away to practically nothing, his data-base
entries under erasure, digitally smudged, evaporated. Perhaps he said
something, anything, at one point, but pronouns long since disappeared.

'_The chora,_ which is neither "sensible" nor "intelligible," belongs to a
"third genus" (_triton genos,_ 48e, 52a). One cannot even say of it that
it is _neither_ this _nor_ that or that it is _both_ this _and_ that."
Sheffer added another before his death, not _both_ this _and_ that.
I added these comments, as well, before my death, which I await, again, in
someone else's sleep, that unknown of dreaming I shall never greet.

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