Is metaphor our basic way of being-in-the-world?
Or a trap we fall into in search for beauty, maybe meaning, or only in a frustrated vagueness of judgement?
Have we pregressed beyond metaphor? Wouldn’t that be a shame.
Is truth so vast, us too limited, that metaphor is our feeble attempt at understanding?
What is more beautiful? Bruno Shulz or Hemingway? Is the world through a child’s eyes preferable?
Do we now prefer the newspaper? Wouldn’t that be a shame.
Isn’t birth and death a metaphor? Despite their ominous reality.
Maybe the only thing that’s now metaphor, the greatest non-metaphor, is war.
I won’t use a metaphor in any attempt to convince anyone that meaning and purpose and patriotism and natioanlism and religion and family and love and envy and jealousy and self deception and the sunset and sunrise are utterly dependent on metaphor, simple prose should suffice.
But what about the non-rational given? Perchance the ultimate and original metaphor.