The author is Karen Armstrong, former nun, historicist of religions, blower of minds.
In her book, she argues that we've lost the ability to think (if "think" is the right word) mythically. One hopeful conclusion she comes to: artists and writers can perhaps help us to return to this lost way of experiencing the world.
The surrealists worried about this loss, too (if, that is, the surrealists can be said to have "worried" about anything).
There is a nightingale in the middle of a thick wood. It sings though its throat is torn out.
No children go to that forest to play or to be menaced. They know better, or they have lost the instinct for being drawn to life-illuminating danger.
This is the nightingale's song:
I think, though I am now a bird, that I was once a child. I can't remember what I thought, when I stood on the carpet and looked around at the sea of legs belonging to adults. Even their legs were taller than I was.
I can't imagine that I went on to grow up. I can't imagine that I made decisions that affected the fate of oceans, that influenced tribal wars on the other side of the globe. I don't believe that I broke someone's heart and then lied about it.
The nightingale listens to the echo of its song coming toward it through the dusk.
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