I have thought I saw myself several times in the course of the War, what I looked like on the inside, the machinery of my essence displayed to me. And I have seen other beings, who bore a resemblance to that me I viewed, but were larger — these were apparently angels. And one I saw was like me, but not me — this was (I am told) Philip K. Dick. Now I ponder how so much gets lost, it would seem, as time bears down and only gives you traces of clues as to what has been. There was so much more to think of, thinking of the stuff of which a soul is made, but all I can entertain now is how curious in shape were the apparatus forms of such psyche as we are. Like pink spaghetti, but angular.

One thing to try and make sense of the world: the philosophy is that we do not prefer the wrong to happen (that it should all go rightly is a prime desire), but when things do go wrong, that we make of things after better than if nothing had gone wrong in the first place. It might be something like a reason why God allows bad things to happen. It might be wishful thinking, too, merely. But think about the implications of this philosophy. Worse can be better.

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The Great Blasphemy