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: What dignifies the Yogic practices is that the belief system itself is not truly religious. There is no Buddhist God per se. It is the Self, the individual Mind, that contains immortality and ultimate truth. Emily Jessup
: What the hell is not religious about that? You've simply replaced God with the Original Self. Eddie Jessup
: Yes, but we've localized it. Now I know where the Self is. It's in our own minds. It's a form of human energy. Our atoms are six billion years old. We've got six billion years of memory in our minds.
: You saved me. You redeemed me from the pit. I was in it, Emily. I was *in* that ultimate moment of terror that is the beginning of life. It is nothing. Simple, hideous nothing. The final truth of all things is that there is no final Truth. Truth is what's transitory. It's human life that is real. I don't want to frighten you, Emily, but what I'm trying to tell you is that moment of terror is a real and living horror, living and growing within me now, and the only thing that keeps it from devouring me is you. Emily Jessup
: Why don't you just come back to us? Eddie Jessup
: It's too late. I don't think I can get it out of me anymore. I can't live with it. The pain is too great.
: I haven't told anyone this in ten years. I'm telling you now because I think you have a right to know what kind of a nut you might be getting mixed up with here. Emily Jessup
: Arthur was right. You are a fascinating bastard.
] He doesn't love me. He never loved me. I was never real to him. Nothing in the human experience is real to him.
: Fight it, Eddie. You made it real, you can make it unreal.
: Defy it, Eddie. You made it real. You can make it unreal. If you love me... If you love me, Eddie, DEFY IT!
: I can't live with it Emily, the pain is unbearable. Emily Jessup
: We all live with it. That unbearable terror is what makes us such singular creatures. We hide from it, we succumb to it, mostly we defy it! We build fragile little structures to keep it out. We love, we raise families, we work, we make friends. We write poems...
: [to Eddie
] Arthur was right. You *are* a fascinating bastard.