Determined to pursue the Russian army
all the way to Moscow, Napoleon fought the flu.
In the biting wind and rain he faced his future
with a fever. Levering his Enemy into the best
position to be killed, he steeled himself to disbelieve
his own mortality - enrobing in puissance-de-Dieu -
he exercised ague- and world-defying godly
autocratic will. When I'm equivalently ill. I'm drawn
to grand denial and hyperbole no less than he.
My capacity for a selective take on what the tapestry
reveals is thoroughly unbounded. I have a taste
for the unfounded. I think the paradox of being
human must contain these two perplexities:
the felt necessity of bald self-revelation and
the urgency of clinging to the lie. Amounts to this:
Plan never to know anything. Expect to die.