By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.
The world of things entered your infant mindTo populate that crystal cabinet.Within its walls the strangest partners met,And things turned thoughts did propagate their kind.For, once within, corporeal fact could findA spirit. Fact and you in mutual debtBuilt there your little microcosm - which yetHad hugest tasks to its small self assigned.Dead men can live there, and converse with stars:Equator speaks with pole, and night with day;Spirit dissolves the world's material bars -A million isolations burn away.The Universe can live and work and plan,At last made God within the mind of man.
And soon afterwards this manuscript will appear, my final book... There will be outrage and disgust and people will turn on me at the last, they will hate me, my reputation will for ever be destroyed, my punishment earned, self-inflicted like this gunshot wound, and the world will finally know that I was the greatest feather man of them all.
Knowing is not simply a material act, since the object that is known always conceals something beyond the empirical datum. All our knowledge, even the most simple, is always a minor miracle, since it can never be fully explained by the material instruments that we apply to it. In every truth there is something more than we would have expected, in the love that we receive there is always an element that surprises us.
How many boys like him were out there in the ether, holding on to their big brothers and sisters who were still alive? How many husbands were floating between life and death, clinging to their wives in this world? And how may millions and millions of people were there in the world like Charlie who wouldn't let go of their loved ones when they're gone?