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Pegasus, v. 2, issue 1, Summer 1943
Page 23
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Pegasus both romanticist and materialist, the sensitive and the bawdy, the weak and the strong, the old and the young. The paradise of a Shroyer would, for example, be -- It has just occurred to me what the paradise of a Shroyer would be like. We had better not, he said loudly, to go into that. As for myself, my own conception of paradise would be the experiencing of that which occurred to the principal characters in J. George Frederick's "Einstein Express". To be disembodies, free, a being of mentality -- to soar upward to the stars laughing sadly in the sheer ecstasy of inconceivable velocity, to tread beyond infinity and know tomorrow and yesterday at once. To run, shrieking in joy, through the garden of the land of brighter suns, where the perfume of a million bizarre flowers is like a shining cloud and the flame of color is like the heart of a million suns; to have knowledge incarnate, and to step reverently through the colossal halls of the Elder ones, hurtle down their cyclopean stairs, and, having seen them, to flee in a terror so unimaginable that it cannot be remembered. To whip suns around like playthings, to make a world and then a system for it and after that -- to give it life; to "hold infinity in the palm of my hand, and see eternity in a day. . . " this must be my paradise. This is perfection without fault, without flaws, without worldliness of any sort. Endlessly, ceaselessly, eternally. Or at least until some other astral being opens a celestial stand to peddle the ectoplasmic equivalent of the hot dog. -- THE END -- SONG OF DESTRUCTION Across the shifting desert dunes The grey-green tanks go scurrying past; Tall geysers rise as thunder seems To crush the earth beneath its blast. Like rats men crouch in filthy holes, Or sweat behind the blasting guns Amidst the bursting hell, and soon Across the sands the red blood runs. High in the azure blue above, The birds of war attack their prey. They twist and dive and kill and then Plunge burning to the gory fray. Thus it is when the war cry rings, When man takes up the club and mace, And fights his hardest to destroy his greatest foe -- the human race. --Eugene Roseboom
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Pegasus both romanticist and materialist, the sensitive and the bawdy, the weak and the strong, the old and the young. The paradise of a Shroyer would, for example, be -- It has just occurred to me what the paradise of a Shroyer would be like. We had better not, he said loudly, to go into that. As for myself, my own conception of paradise would be the experiencing of that which occurred to the principal characters in J. George Frederick's "Einstein Express". To be disembodies, free, a being of mentality -- to soar upward to the stars laughing sadly in the sheer ecstasy of inconceivable velocity, to tread beyond infinity and know tomorrow and yesterday at once. To run, shrieking in joy, through the garden of the land of brighter suns, where the perfume of a million bizarre flowers is like a shining cloud and the flame of color is like the heart of a million suns; to have knowledge incarnate, and to step reverently through the colossal halls of the Elder ones, hurtle down their cyclopean stairs, and, having seen them, to flee in a terror so unimaginable that it cannot be remembered. To whip suns around like playthings, to make a world and then a system for it and after that -- to give it life; to "hold infinity in the palm of my hand, and see eternity in a day. . . " this must be my paradise. This is perfection without fault, without flaws, without worldliness of any sort. Endlessly, ceaselessly, eternally. Or at least until some other astral being opens a celestial stand to peddle the ectoplasmic equivalent of the hot dog. -- THE END -- SONG OF DESTRUCTION Across the shifting desert dunes The grey-green tanks go scurrying past; Tall geysers rise as thunder seems To crush the earth beneath its blast. Like rats men crouch in filthy holes, Or sweat behind the blasting guns Amidst the bursting hell, and soon Across the sands the red blood runs. High in the azure blue above, The birds of war attack their prey. They twist and dive and kill and then Plunge burning to the gory fray. Thus it is when the war cry rings, When man takes up the club and mace, And fights his hardest to destroy his greatest foe -- the human race. --Eugene Roseboom
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