World-pudding

"But can I wait until I'm right?" asks me, the person that wishes to be right. The person wants to proclaim the world-tree with branches of metal and angles of righteousness. The person wishing to be right wants to tell what is moral from what is wrong and know if it is the free market or socialism.

"But now, my friends, I proclaim that I will not be afraid to be wrong, for I want to open my mouth," says he from the top of the mountain. (Látjátok feleim szümtükkel ugyebár.) He holds some commandaments under his arm that he just made up. He is disciplined and sees the nonrational as well as the rational. He has nice robes but wears them funnily. His beard is thoughtful. He knows how to keep bees and ask kindly for their honey.

The best part of Hungarian Christmas

"I do away with the world-tree," says this gentrified Zarathustra from the top of the mountain. There are Strauss-chords and F trumpets in the mud below. "I proclaim the world-pudding. I know not much but nor will I learn if I just wait until I'm right. And the purpose is to learn and to proclaim, and not to dread forever the lack of judgment. How can I tell a good story without telling a hundred-and-ten bad ones first; how can I say anything rigorous and true before saying a hundred-and-ten things that are ridiculous but come from the heart? It might very well be a shame to be stupid, but it surely isn't to be incomplete."

I proclaim the world-pudding. Proclaim and advertise my infantile musings. He said it, I wish to learn and tell, not wait till I'm right. The world is made of gut, not metal. "Nothing ventured nothing gained," says Glenn Gould. And so I want to write a fugue.