The ninth hour is the hour in which the sun possesses us and we
abandon ourselves to its burning, blinding flame to think with a
light so bright. At noon we come out of Plato's cave and stare into
the sun: the unknown gazing into the unknown. These writings do not
owe anything to the philosophical sun, the good sun of Plato that
erases all differences, the good sun of enlightened reason that is
oblivious to the knowledge of the "madman." They are writings born
beyond the sun, on the "rotten" side of the sun, unprotected by the
shadow of logic; writings come out of darkness, of the spiritual
umbra of he who stares directly at the sun. And, more specifically,
writings begotten out of the spiritual nigrescence of whom writes
at the ninth hour, at high noon.
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