Sulphur River Vernal Equinox 2001 [antikvár]

TRIBUTARIES For want of magic, the spell was never cast. Horses never grew wings or horns. No Camelot rose from the mire. For want of magic, the soldier never made it home. The kingdom was lost to the usurper. Lovers never met but lived their lives in solitary sadness or as slaves to bad marriages. For want of magic, hope was never born. The word never touched an eager heart, never filled it until it strained agaist the confines of the chest. For want of magic, our dreams are as hungry wolves in the night. Our eyes hardly lift above our shoes. Our days hold no distinction. For want of magic, the story never unfolds. We cannot sing. I am not talking about the kind of magic one sees at a show, the sleight-of-hand, smoke and mirrors illusions dependent upon the distracted eye. Nor do I mean the glitz and spectacle created on the silver screen, the fascinating gadgetry of modern science, or even the beautiful wonder of the natural world. I do not mean voodoo or witchcraft or even alchemy, that least understood of the ancient arts. Not the spells of mythological peoples; not the miracles of angels, though none of these things would ever exist without the magic of which I speak. The magic I speak is not so easy to define. It doesn't come with explanations, though we have been trying to write them for a very long time. It is not easy to understand, and quite often trying to understand it at all can drive one mad. And yet, it's fairly simple, really. And essential. It is what happens when we love. When we love, the spell is cast and everything becomes possible. Impossible odds can be overcome and the soldier returned home. The lovers meet, and hope blooms into wonder and contentment. The golden kingdom is built in days full of glory, and we can lift our eyes to the heavens. And sing. And perhaps it is in the singing that the effects of the magic have their greatest capacity to capture something of the essence of the magic itself. Out of nothing come songs. Out of stone, the sculpture, out of color the painting, all truth and beauty. From the ink, lines are made and the picture resolves itself into image. The flimsiest stuff, which is the thoughts of the humán species, is turnéd into wonderful