Eulogium on the Death of Amicus--Part I
October 13th 2006 02:42
Friends, today we are gathered here to mourn the death of dear Amicus and you asked me to speak a few words about the departed soul. What can I say? Where can I begin? I am as devastated at the death of Amicus as I would be at the death of my favorite bulldog.
He was my bulldog, for would he not always follow my steps closely, as bulldogs follow their master’s footsteps? Or is it another breed of canine? I would be walking on the streets of Atlantis and there he was, following me, matching step to step. He would wear my heavy brow and walk my slow walk. I would laugh suddenly, amused at the little fancies my own brain conjured up and there he was, laughing knowingly, as if he too knew the secret. He was my disciple who never shared my joke.
It was true that I had initiated him into the way of Paganetics. He was one of many, and I am afraid, not the brightest, even though I must confess, he was one of the staunchest. He was older than me and had a pudgy face, a pendulous stomach and a shaggy beard, so you see my description of him as a bulldog is exact and concrete.
One day I gave him quite a bit of tongue lashing when he confessed to me that he had not yet made himself familiar with that little wonder called The Anthem of The Randian Apollo.
“Amicus,” I said to him, “do you want to spend your life as a mote of beam, given identity by a passing every ray of light? You call it a little book, Amicus. But that little book opens our eyes to the darkness of darkness and the lightness of light, the true nature of things. If you have not read the book yet, you are not fit to walk the walk with me.”
Yes, quite a bit of lashing it was and I am sorry to admit now, he was quite pained by it. Needless to say, he had not read the book before he died.
He was my bulldog, for would he not always follow my steps closely, as bulldogs follow their master’s footsteps? Or is it another breed of canine? I would be walking on the streets of Atlantis and there he was, following me, matching step to step. He would wear my heavy brow and walk my slow walk. I would laugh suddenly, amused at the little fancies my own brain conjured up and there he was, laughing knowingly, as if he too knew the secret. He was my disciple who never shared my joke.
It was true that I had initiated him into the way of Paganetics. He was one of many, and I am afraid, not the brightest, even though I must confess, he was one of the staunchest. He was older than me and had a pudgy face, a pendulous stomach and a shaggy beard, so you see my description of him as a bulldog is exact and concrete.
One day I gave him quite a bit of tongue lashing when he confessed to me that he had not yet made himself familiar with that little wonder called The Anthem of The Randian Apollo.
“Amicus,” I said to him, “do you want to spend your life as a mote of beam, given identity by a passing every ray of light? You call it a little book, Amicus. But that little book opens our eyes to the darkness of darkness and the lightness of light, the true nature of things. If you have not read the book yet, you are not fit to walk the walk with me.”
Yes, quite a bit of lashing it was and I am sorry to admit now, he was quite pained by it. Needless to say, he had not read the book before he died.
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