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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=350335" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Problem</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=350335" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The Problem</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=350335" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The name of the bow is life, but its work is death.<br>—The Fragments</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=350335" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">How in Heraclitus<br>ideas of things, quality, and event<br>coalesce—sun/warmth/dawn—<br>the perceiver/perceived, too,<br>not yet parsed, not yet,<br>and then the great Forgetting,<br>breath and breather, love and beloved,<br>world and God-in-the-world.<br>But then it comes upon us: that brightness,<br>that bright tension in animals, for instance,<br>that focus, that compass<br>of the mammalian mind finding<br>its own true North,<br>saintly in its dark-eyed,<br>arrow-eared devotion.<br>A kind of calling, a via negativa,<br>a surrender, still and silent, to the heart’s desire.<br>So in the cathedral of the world<br>we hold communion,<br>the bread of language<br>placed delicately upon our tongues<br>as we breathe the bitter air,<br>drinking the wine of reason<br>and pressing to our breasts the old dream of Being.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=B.H.+Fairchild">B.H. Fairchild</a></strong></div>