Ah, the ever morphing realizations of internet possibility … I looked up Gene Wolfe and found almost as many words about his writing as he’s written, with speculations, questions and extensions by all sorts of contributors from readers and authors. That he is as obscure as he is, and was to me before being introduced, must be due to the lack of true literacy in the English speaking public. Those that do read range from escapist dalliances to serious saturation as indicated by relative knowledge expressed by anything from frivolous ideas to a list of extensive references to prior works proposed to be influences for everything from speech patterns to philosophies, from creatures to entire civilizations. Amazing.
My happiness sails upon the ocean I am. The waves and ripples and tides are my moods reflecting the winds of nature’s constant change and the islands and continents of my fellow humans’ actions and the orbit of my deepest love. The crests of well swelling require troughs of hell dwelling, for I could not feel so well had I never felt as poorly. The logarithmic comparison of such contrasts results in my happiness’ buoyancy. Attachment to pleasure and avoidance of pain amplify the deviation in such a way that confuses the location of my center amidst the storm at sea until I once again remember that my home port is my boat.