Many books have been destroyed, carelessly or by design. Lost, burnt, forgotten, volumes drop out of existence, along with—more easily disposed of—proofs never pulled, unpublished manuscripts, notes for books, plans and proposals for things to be written, collected, put into books. The number of projects unaccomplished in history must be enormous.
And much larger, almost infinite, the realm of projects unattempted, never started, what no one ever thought to try.
My doctrine would derive, not from wisdom concealed by anxious arhats in caves beneath impassable Himalayas, nor from a chain of unwritten instruction passed guru-wise down centuries. It would remain in a world beneath notice, too obvious to be considered. Thus, secret.
The world as it lies open here, waiting for me to fail.
I do not need to know your real name.
This much seems obvious, that as we move along the path, slowly but certainly the path replaces us. And also, just as strands in the vitreous humour cloud the visual field, words stray, making our thought opaque.
---Keith Waldrop
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