… it was
the equinox . . . green spring equal nights . . . canyons are opening
up, at the bottoms are steaming fumaroles, steaming the tropical life
there like greens in a pot, rank, dope-perfume, a hood of smell . . .
human consciousness, that poor cripple, that deformed and doomed
thing, is about to be born. This is the World just before men. Too
violently pitched alive in constant flow ever to be seen by men
directly.
