A Draught of Blue

From the Introduction. The sun goes down, for those alone, who stand on a revolving sphere: and so, in Nature's universal life, Death is but a dissolving view, a word without a meaning: real only to the accidental unit, to whose local and momentary combination it sets a term. Death is a thing of nought, phenomenal, kaleidoscopic: a juggle of the Mother of Illusion, Prakriti or Maya, whose magic scene not only never dies, but like her own wild animals, sleeps even with an open eye. You never...