A Dangerous Observation From Ch. 11

From the epilogue of An Authorship of Meat
Or chapter 10 of The Rohippies:

The happiness, now understood, is gone, do you not see?

The faces?

The beautiful fucking faces everywhere?

The happiness, which when pressed, when touched too directly, when understood too fully, like a snail retreats into a shell?

To be forever understood in all its complexity but never again touched in all its sliminess?