A conceit is the idea at the heart of every action whether it be a poet’s metaphor or a mother’s pride. Not like conceit in the sense of arrogance, but rather modest – for the true nature of a conceit is ineffable, as pure in its motive as the innate bud of a flower. It knows of a pleasure too subtle to be explained. It is a calling, a secreted impulse toward something higher, begun alone. I have called the feeling Melanqualia, as there is an uncertainty to it which prevents arrogance, but which, all the same, provides an exquisite sensitivity in the imagination – perhaps like flying blind through a cloud.
2026-10-21