About Jonathan Quince

[Heavily-stylized mini-photo of Jonathan Quince]

Quests for achievement are writ large ’pon the face of man and his history. Yet humanity’s future is, to this day, bound up in open struggle. The twentieth century was an epoch of violence, of change, of horrors and of wonders: With atoms smashed, the moon conquered, silicon logicians at work, and the world torn asunder by War, beauty and goodness did struggle for life as life itself teetered on the brink of apocalypse.

Against this backdrop, Jonathan Quince entered the genesis of his life and identity. Coming of age during the heady years of millennial quickening, his purpose took shape through questions of life, of survival, of triumph and of tragedy. The world did before him lie ripe with possibilities; yet suffering and corruption wrought their Hell-burnt brands on his consciousness. In moments of bleakness, he turned inwards and sought solace in the apotheosis of beauty. Thus, with death renounced and the world itself mere inches from his palm, he set forth to build a life guided by the power of his vision — and mayhap thereby, a world remade.

Mr. Quince reached early adulthood scarred deeply by despair; there, he found the question, and in the answer thereto, he found his purpose.

Beauty’s love-song rang in his ears from the mountains of Heaven. It was pure in joy, such as to make a man weep; yet it bore full-force with sadness, for it was neglected, disparaged, nearly murdered and cast out of this world altogether. Young Jonathan became obsessed with seeing beauty’s fulfillment — with erasing destruction and laying the foundstones for the answers to all questions. A new method would begin to take shape in the aethers of his mind, impressing upon him the urgency of a path that runs asymptotic to perfection.

Eyes blinded from birth came to see their first light. A mind rusted to scrap, decayed through years of disuse, abuse, and the ravages of warfare, began to reconstruct itself from first principles. The living dead stirred in the tomb of his body; unused muscles flared with the pain of new life as he stretched out his hand to the waters of the dream-pool.

From dreams he drank deeply, desperately, slaking the thirst of angels left sleeping in the smouldering ashes of a holocaust. Intoxicated on life, invigorated by the challenge of building the world anew, he raised his hand to Powers and began to weave Words.

Both poetry and prose took shape in metaphors of living beauty. Each thing was itself; yet also it became another facet of the world at large. The initial explorations delved to the realms of birth, of conception, of growth and renewal. The carnal domain was the first annexed to his quest, a home for his House that mirrored the levels above.

Beauty is a joy; but every joy comes bonded with a harsh demand. Divers days, his mind eclipsed or the burden breaking his shoulders, he faltered or went astray; yet always he returned faithfully, cleansing himself in the forge-fires of his building. Beauty demanded no less; for no less would bring him a means to purity. And synchronously, shaping the lessons within into lectures without, he worked to explore Beauty’s demands as the means to and of the future.

The first works were the learning-craft of a monk living in obscurity. With the kisses of Beauty fresh upon his lips, he committed bits and pieces of sacredness and pasted them into his Log. Eremitic chastity was the blissful suffering of these first passions as he labored away at Nature’s breast, creating beauty from his pinnacle of loneliness.

Still did he live in pain; but now the pain was ameliorated by hope, and by the first caresses of Beauty in the arms of his spirit. Beauty was his object, Beauty his lust; and now, at last again, he had Beauty within his sight-lines.

So was the genesis of Sopef; and so stands history at present, this day still in the writing.

May it continue toward hope’s fulfillment in Beauty.

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