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In her novel regeneration, pat barker writes of a doctor who 'knew only too well how often the early stages of change or cure may mimic deterioration. cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. what you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul, for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. no, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.
-Rebecca Solnit
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In Her Novel Regeneration, Pat Barker Writes

Rebecca Solnit
In her novel regeneration, pat barker writes of a doctor who 'knew only too well how often the early stages of change or cure may mimic deterioration. cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. what you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul, for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. no, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.
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Nature Writing Butterfly

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Awakening is not a thing. it is not a goal, not a concept. it is not something to be attained. it is a metamorphosis. if the caterpillar thinks about the butterfly it is to become, saying ‘and then i shall have wings and antennae,’ there will never be a butterfly. the caterpillar must accept its own disappearance in its transformation. when the marvelous butterfly takes wing, nothing of the caterpillar remains.
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Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly dust?
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Once committed to fight, cut. everything else is secondary. cut. that is your duty, your purpose, your hunger. there is no rule more important, no commitment that overrides that one. cut. cut from the void, not from bewilderment. cut the enemy as quickly and directly as possible. cut decisively, resolutely. cut into the enemy’s strength. flow through the gaps in his guard. cut him. cut him down utterly. don’t allow him a breath. crush him. cut him without mercy to the depths of his spirit." -richard rahl
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It occurred to dr. lecter in the moment that with all his knowledge and intrusion, he could never entirely predict her, or own her at all. he could feed the caterpillar, he could whisper through the chrysalis; what hatched out followed its own nature and was beyond him. he wondered if she had the .45 on her leg beneath the gown. clarice starling smiled at him then, the cabochons caught the firelight and the monster was lost in self-congratulation at his own exquisite taste and cunning.
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The apocalypse is now! americans know this, that the only hope is the flying saucers. do you know how i see the world? like a person who is dying. it's a worm who is dying to make a butterfly. we must not stop the worm from dying, we must help the worm to die to help the butterfly to be born. we need to dance with death. this world is dying, but very well. we will make a big, big enormous butterfly. you and i will be the first movements in the wings of the butterfly because we are speaking like this.
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And besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place - even the butterfly. but humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings.it is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.
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Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; and give us not to think so far away as the uncertain harvest; keep us here all simply in the springing of the year. oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; and make us happy in the happy bees, the swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
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No path of flowers leads to glory.
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Life is a stream on which we strew petal by petal the flower of our heart; the end lost in dream, they float past our view, we only watch their glad, early start. freighted with hope, crimsoned with joy, we scatter the leaves of our opening rose; their widening scope, their distant employ, we never shall know. and the stream as it flows sweeps them away, each one is gone ever beyond into infinite ways. we alone stay while years hurry on, the flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.
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I end not far from my going forth by picking the faded blue of the last remaining aster flower to carry again to you.
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