The Beautiful Knowing – by Dan Weatherer

  There exists a body of prose thought to be so imbued with beauty, that many have declared it to be the finest work ever committed to page.

            You shall not find it listed online, nor will it be catalogued in any library that you might know. The title is spoken of only amongst the great thinkers, in hushed tones laced with trepidation. I often considered it unfair how that such a marvel is not so freely available as to be enjoyed by the curious masses?

            I have heard it said often that great art is produced only through great suffering, though rarely is the price of its enjoyment similarly severe? Those that have read the piece in question, have dutifully suffered for their endeavours, and many speak of only being too willing to do so again – but I shall get to that. 

            The few who have read the piece in its entirety have spoken little of its content. All agree that words alone cannot hope to describe the elegance of the piece, nor the sheer weight of its message. They do say that this is an example of language transcending conventional structure, where words and meanings bloom into something more, defying explanation. This is a piece that you feel; that changes the way we perceive ourselves and indeed others. This is a piece that contains all the answers that one might ever have the inclination to seek.

            But what of the price for reading?

           Whispers hint of those whom, having the determination to seek out a copy of the piece, succumb to a complete and total blindness once the last word is read. 

          I spoke to a man who claimed to have read a complete version of said manuscript. I asked him:

         ‘Was forgoing the gift of sight a fair and just sacrifice?’

         He merely turned to me and smiled.

            I have obtained a copy of said prose; it is locked away in my desk drawer so that none might fall victim to its beautiful curse. The title of the piece is ‘όμορφη Γνωρίζοντας,’ which translates roughly to ‘The Beautiful Knowing’. I have decided that I must read it for myself. How can I deny myself access the greatest body of written work known to man, when I, myself, live and die by the pen?

            Yes, I admit, I am afraid of losing my sight; afraid that I shall never look upon the beauty of a springtime garden, one bursting with life and colour. I am afraid I shall never see the sweet face of my dear Marie. Yet if the testimonies of the few that have read The Beautiful Knowing, are correct, then I shall experience…no, I shall know the true beauty of life.

           The price of losing the ability to see is one that I am willing to pay.


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