The flesh, the senses, are now
self-conscious. They know their aim. Their aim is in supreme sensation.
They seek the maximum of sensation. They seek the reduction of the
flesh, the flesh reacting upon itself, to a crisis, an ecstasy, a
phosphorescent transfiguration in ecstasy.
The mind, all the time, subserves the senses. As in a cat, there is
subtlety and beauty and the dignity of the darkness. But the fire is
cold, as in the eyes of a cat, it is a green fire. It is fluid,
electric. At its maximum it is the white ecstasy of phosphorescence, in
the darkness, always amid the darkness, as under the black fur of a cat.
Like the feline fire, it is destructive, always consuming and reducing
to the ecstasy of sensation, which is the end in itself.
There is the I, always the I. And the mind is submerged, overcome. But
the senses are superbly arrogant. The senses are the absolute, the
god-like. For I can never have another man's senses. These are me, my
senses absolutely me. And all that is can only come to me through my
senses. So that all is me, and is administered unto me. The rest, that
is not me, is nothing, it is something which is nothing.
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