In his work "Gestures and opinions of Doctor Faustroll", Jarry exposes the principles and goal of 'Pataphysics and finishes the book with a calculation of the surface of God. Taking advantage of that, the calculation is used to represent it/him with a triangle. The calculations of Doctor Faustroll carry further to explain that "God is the shortest road of zero to the infinite, in both senses" but seeing that God does not have extension and is not a line, the conclusion will be, always according to the formula of Doctor Faustroll, that "God is the point tangent of zero and of the infinite".– Clarin, from Chile
Salam wise Solomon, conjoiner of Mother Sun and father moon, furthering forth further, mere middling minded men, and with no warning nor further adieu, to boats they named maru claimed "we are many, ye are few". many-er more trapped by Euclidean kings, a man-year, an amount of work consisting, of the number of mandays per year, commenting, ye monsters are many, we mariners are few. here mayan, there malay, melee and melena, mary's melic melodies mourn melon-cholicly mammon's mammouth norman morman, mosaics by prosaic monied masons commending of his ministerial mensurations, resonating ill with her monthly menstruations, a tangent can touch, no cross nor intersection: Ba'al? Bull's bilious bollocks! my son is my father, my mother's the moon. with pompous poems & circumstance, see Alfred E. Jarry and E. Dickinson's dance, chiasma, inversion, negations, absurd: there is a boot made for every wet turd. marionettes in manure... nonsense! desist! goes your self-assured scoff, taking the top of your own head clean off, corpses in mouths bound off any dead ear, hear fear? sneer beer cheer! my mother's the sun, your father's king lear!
Only concerning the rooted plants,
or those unable to break into dance –
unless it is about possibilities,
either "desire" expressed,
or "growth" becoming,
power's about nothing.
What arrogance (or is it timidity?) to always demand impossiblility ...without experimentation! It is this which gives the cow-herder the courage of a cur whose encouraging lick is ever a cure for Paterfamilia and Claustrophilia, not to mention your salty villa. Like the salvo of savy and savoir faire of a gorilla and 'er familiars to distribute themselves and all their affairs into and out of nooks and lairs, unscathed by marauding tax-collectors who pusillanimously (but not unloudly) shout: "Stand still, you cowards, you lollards you louts!"
You must set yourself free
From the striving of Man
And the applause of the World
You must fly as you can...
The fire within you,
Soft silken embers,
Is our whole duty
But no one remembers.