When Circe first warned Odysseus about the island, she told him that the sirens sat in their pretty meadow surrounded by a great heap of bones belonging to rotting men, their skins tanned by the wind until they resembled hides. Perhaps their knowledge paralysed them, for how could you act if you knew everything that had occurred or would occur? Maybe it’s better to go on as we do: half-blind, half-deaf, trailing the litter of the past behind us like a comet’s tail, now flashing, now flailing through the infinite dark.
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