Losing the magic

I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, then a third, which gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing its magic. It is plain that the truth I am seeking lies not in the cup but in myself. The drink has called it into being, but does not know it, and can only repeat indefinitely, with a progressive diminution of strength, the same message which I cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call it forth again and to find it there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down the cup and examine my own mind. It alone can discover the truth. But how?


This is a direct continuation of the passage from the previous post. And one more short section directly follows this one, which I'll save for the next post. I like being able to carve his dense prose into shorter segments. It helps me focus more on what he's saying. Sometimes he just plain exhausts me before I can absorb any meaning.