« Visions of the things to be | Main | Il natale d'Apollo »

Sunday, December 03, 2017

I carry this need for pattern and rule, to see connections where there aren’t necessarily any.

The Birth of Superstition:

It’s not hard to imagine: my ancestor—a dry season,
               dust like chalk on her tongue—mixes
                              spit with clay,
 
traces a river on rock. Next day: rain.
 
                                                                           Why shouldn’t she believe
               in the power of rock and her own hand?

Lynn Pedersen.

ntodd

December 3, 2017 | Permalink

Comments

True, but what gets me is how often, when you look at what those who believe they have surpassed superstition assert is objective reality, how much of it is essentially the same thing they believe they've surpassed. There is no habit of superstition more compounded than one like that.

Posted by: Anthony McCarthy | Dec 3, 2017 11:16:38 AM

Keep hope alive!

Posted by: Rmj | Dec 3, 2017 2:30:30 PM

Post a comment