Sit beside an angel on the edge of the world.
The mortal sin of the critic consists in secretly dreaming that he is capable of improving the author.
(El pecado mortal del crítico está en soñar secretamente que podría perfeccionar al autor.)
Nicolás Gómez Dávila
“Probity is praised,” says Juvenal, “and left to freeze in the cold.” Now, two millennia later, looking down from the proud eminence of a much more advanced stage of moral decay, we’re inclined to suspect the satirist of exaggeration—surely there was never a time when probity was praised?
Risen from a tumultuous sea of nervous excitement formed by precipitation fallen from a cloud of defiled virtue and launched into boundless space by an incandescent idea of selfless love ungraspable by language, glide toward the center of a smoke-bisected parallelogram consisting of two perfectly congruent groups of golden orioles facing in opposite directions whose small bodies inhabited by heavenly spirits have been stamped upon the pale blue skin of the sky by the invisible hand of God.