Infinity Son Quotes

He’s a tough little son of a biscuit eater. (Bubba)

The strongest power above all is a living heart. Humanity is what makes heroes, not powers. The strongest power is humanity.

Like we’re both stars in the sky that aren’t close enough to shine brightly together.

You’re the only person not expecting anything from me either.

I can’t know who I want to be when I’m still struggling with who I am.

I didn’t grow up with powers, but I’ve been a brother for eighteen years. No fire burns brighter than that.

I may not be throwing fire, but I'm just as much a hero as anyone else.

Unlikely but not impossible are the best odds for any dreamer

I morph into a white man so no one will bother me.

Your humanity is what makes you heroic, not your powers.

It's one thing to be powerless and another to be useless.

Some of us camouflage our scrawny bodies in baggy shirts and slouch, just waiting for the day when we can fold into ourselves and vanish completely.

Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in per-son? Latin me that, my trinity scholard, out of eure sanscreed into oure eryan! Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daugh-ters of. Whawk? Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flitter-ing bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Thom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all thim liffey-ing waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos won't moos. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter- sons. Dark hawks hear us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who wereShem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!

I am the sun I am the sea I am the one By infinity I am the spark I am the light I am the dark And I am the night I am Iran I am Xerxes I am Zal’s son And I am a beast I am God’s own Emissary Colour my heart Red, white and green I am Ferdowsi I am Hafez I am Saadi Rolled all in one breath Ibn Sina Omar Khayyam Look at me now Bundled in one I am the present I am the past I am the future My presence will last I am Ismail My soul is unleashed ‘Till the day at least The sun sets in the east

My little brother's greatest fear was that the one person who meant so much to him would go away. He loved Lindsey and Grandma Lynn and Samuel and Hal, but my father kept him stepping lightly, son gingerly monitoring father every morning and every evening as if, without such vigilance, he would lose him. We stood- the dead child and the living- on either side of my father, both wanting the same thing. To have him to ourselves forver. To please us both was an impossibility. ... 'Please don't let Daddy die, Susie,' he whispered. 'I need him.' When I left my brother, I walked out past the gazebo and under the lights hanging down like berries, and I saw the brick paths branching out as I advanced. I walked until the bricks turned to flat stones and then to small, sharp rocks and then to nothing but churned earth for miles adn miles around me. I stood there. I had been in heaven long enough to know that something would be revealed. And as the light began to fade and the sky to turn a dark, sweet blue as it had on the night of my death, I saw something walking into view, so far away I could not at first make out if it was man or woman, child or adult. But as moonlight reached this figure I could make out a man and, frightened now, my breathing shallow, I raced just far enough to see. Was it my father? Was it what I had wanted all this time so deperately? 'Susie,' the man said as I approached and then stopped a few feet from where he stood. He raised his arms up toward me. 'Remember?' he said. I found myself small again, age six and in a living room in Illinois. Now, as I had done then, I placed my feet on top of his feet. 'Granddaddy,' I said. And because we were all alone and both in heaven, I was light enough to move as I had moved when I was six and in a living room in Illinois. Now, as I had done then, I placed my feet on top of his feet. 'Granddaddy,' I said. And because we were all alone and both in heaven, I was light enough to move as I had moved when I was six and he was fifty-six and my father had taken us to visit. We danced so slowly to a song that on Earth had always made my grandfather cry. 'Do you remember?' he asked. 'Barber!' 'Adagio for Strings,' he said. But as we danced and spun- none of the herky-jerky awkwardness of Earth- what I remembered was how I'd found him crying to this music and asked him why. 'Sometimes you cry,' Susie, even when someone you love has been gone a long time.' He had held me against him then, just briefly, and then I had run outside to play again with Lindsey in what seemed like my grandfather's huge backyard. We didn't speak any more that night, but we danced for hours in that timeless blue light. I knew as we danced that something was happening on Earth and in heaven. A shifting. The sort of slow-to-sudden movement that we'd read about in science class one year. Seismic, impossible, a rending and tearing of time and space. I pressed myself into my grandfather's chest and smelled the old-man smell of him, the mothball version of my own father, the blood on Earth, the sky in heaven. The kumquat, skunk, grade-A tobacco. When the music stopped, it cold have been forever since we'd begun. My grandfateher took a step back, and the light grew yellow at his back. 'I'm going,' he said. 'Where?' I asked. 'Don't worry, sweetheart. You're so close.' He turned and walked away, disappearing rapidly into spots and dust. Infinity.

Jesus Christ is not a cosmic errand boy. I mean no disrespect or irreverence in so saying, but I do intend to convey the idea that while he loves us deeply and dearly, Christ the Lord is not perched on the edge of heaven, anxiously anticipating our next wish. When we speak of God being good to us, we generally mean that he is kind to us. In the words of the inimitable C. S. Lewis, "What would really satisfy us would be a god who said of anything we happened to like doing, 'What does it matter so long as they are contented?' We want, in fact, not so much a father in heaven as a grandfather in heaven--a senile benevolence who as they say, 'liked to see young people enjoying themselves,' and whose plan for the universe was simply that it might be truly said at the end of each day, 'a good time was had by all.'" You know and I know that our Lord is much, much more than that. One writer observed: "When we so emphasize Christ's benefits that he becomes nothing more than what his significance is 'for me' we are in danger. . . . Evangelism that says 'come on, it's good for you'; discipleship that concentrates on the benefits package; sermons that 'use' Jesus as the means to a better life or marriage or job or attitude--these all turn Jesus into an expression of that nice god who always meets my spiritual needs. And this is why I am increasingly hesitant to speak of Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior. As Ken Woodward put it in a 1994 essay, 'Now I think we all need to be converted--over and over again, but having a personal Savior has always struck me as, well, elitist, like having a personal tailor. I'm satisfied to have the same Lord and Savior as everyone else.' Jesus is not a personal Savior who only seeks to meet my needs. He is the risen, crucified Lord of all creation who seeks to guide me back into the truth." . . . His infinity does not preclude either his immediacy or his intimacy. One man stated that "I want neither a terrorist spirituality that keeps me in a perpetual state of fright about being in right relationship with my heavenly Father nor a sappy spirituality that portrays God as such a benign teddy bear that there is no aberrant behavior or desire of mine that he will not condone." . . . Christ is not "my buddy." There is a natural tendency, and it is a dangerous one, to seek to bring Jesus down to our level in an effort to draw closer to him. This is a problem among people both in and outside the LDS faith. Of course we should seek with all our hearts to draw near to him. Of course we should strive to set aside all barriers that would prevent us from closer fellowship with him. And of course we should pray and labor and serve in an effort to close the gap between what we are and what we should be. But drawing close to the Lord is serious business; we nudge our way into intimacy at the peril of our souls. . . . Another gospel irony is that the way to get close to the Lord is not by attempting in any way to shrink the distance between us, to emphasize more of his humanity than his divinity, or to speak to him or of him in casual, colloquial language. . . . Those who have come to know the Lord best--the prophets or covenant spokesmen--are also those who speak of him in reverent tones, who, like Isaiah, find themselves crying out, "Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts" (Isaiah 6:5). Coming into the presence of the Almighty is no light thing; we feel to respond soberly to God's command to Moses: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground" (Exodus 3:5). Elder Bruce R. McConkie explained, "Those who truly love the Lord and who worship the Father in the name of the Son by the power of the Spirit, according to the approved patterns, maintain a reverential barrier between themselves and all the members of the Godhead.

No, Jem, io credo che la gente sia di un tipo solo: gente, e basta!" [...] "E' quel che pensavo anch'io quando avevo la tua età" disse infine. "Ma se gli uomini fossero di un tipo solo, come ti spieghi che non vanno mai d'accordo tra loro? Se son tutti uguali perché passano la vita a disprezzarsi a vicenda?

A year is an infinity of perceptions: not just the shapes of starlings and the death of the pope and watching our sons learn to walk, but the smell of roasting meat in an alley, the dark brown eyes of a beggar on a church step, a single dandelion seed settling soundlessly onto the habit of a nun who is riding the tram.

The river that runs through my being Flows through an endless sea, Reflects in a view such tender feeling, Under the Universe only what I see.

Every revolution needs a soundtrack.

I told you that if you are going to do something, son. You need to do it with all of your heart. You have something you didn’t have before. Hope. You’ve defeated one of them. They can be beaten.

Sempre,sempre le strade vanno avanti, su rocce e sotto piante, a costeggiare antri che di ogni luce son mancanti, lungo ruscelli che non vanno al mare, sopra la neve che d'inverno cade, in mezzo ai fiori felici dell'estate, sopra la pietra e prati di rugiade sotto montagne di lune inondate. Sempre,sempre le strade vanno avanti sotto le nubi e la volta stellata, ma i piedi incerti,nel cammino erranti volgono infine alla dimora amata. Gli occhi che han visto spade e fiamme ardenti ed in sale di pietra orrori ignoti, guardano infine i pascoli ridenti e gli alberi ed i colli tanto noti

One group hug and we're out the door and back in the car that brought me here. We're on the road, and I can't believe I've gotten myself into this. Maybe this is how every hero feels before they go into battle.

The Father and his Troubadour sat down Upon the outer rim of space. "And here, My Singer," said Earthmaker, "is the crown Of all my endless skies-the green, brown sphere Of all my hopes." He reached and took the round New planet down, and held it to his ear. "They're crying, Troubadour," he said. "They cry So hopelessly." He gave the little ball Unto his Son, who also held it by His ear. "Year after weary year they all Keep crying. They seem born to weep then die. Our new man taught them crying in the Fall. "It is a peaceless globe. Some are sincere In desperate desire to see her freed Of her absurdity. But war is here. Men die in conflict, bathed in blood and greed." Then with his nail he scraped the atmosphere And both of them beheld the planet bleed. Earthmaker set earth spinning on its way And said, "Give me your vast infinity My son; I'll wrap it in a bit of clay. Then enter Terra microscopically To love the little souls who weep away Their lives." "I will," I said, "set Terra free." And then I fell asleep and all awareness fled. I felt my very being shrinking down. My vastness ebbed away. In dwindling dread, All size decayed. The universe around Drew back. I woke upon a tiny bed Of straw in one of Terra's smaller towns. And now the great reduction has begun: Earthmaker and his Troubadour are one. And here's the new redeeming melody--The only song that can set Terra free. The

Sat in the Jacuzzi last night looking at the dark recesses of the nozzles. Remembering the story I wrote about spiders nesting there. Multifaceted eyes watching me watching them, almost like when you set two mirrors parallel to each other, accept this infinity ends up in some fuzzy creature’s belly. I have a nice picture of a Hobo spider in my backyard, venom dripping off one of those nasty fangs of theirs. Son of a bitch is looking at me and his mouth is watering waiting for me to stick my hand under the rock he’s nested in. I hate it when you spray a spider with insecticide and it curls up for a few minutes, then uncurls and staggers home. I’m like an arachnid cheap date that sucks!! I just picture the spider staggering into the nest and the female spider asking, “Is that Raid I smell on you?” The spider just smiles (interesting thing to picture) and passes out.

Whenever I start thinking of my love for a person, I am in the habit of immediately drawing radii from my love – from my heart, from the tender nucleus of a personal matter – to monstrously remote points of the universe. Something impels me to measure the consciousness of my love against such unimaginable and incalculable things as the behavior of nebulae (whose very remoteness seems a form of insanity), the dreadful pitfalls of eternity, the unknowledgeable beyond the unknown, the helplessness, the cold, the sickening involutions and interpenetrations of space and time. It is a pernicious habit, but I can do nothing about it. It can be compared to the uncontrollable flick of an insomniac’s tongue checking a jagged tooth in the night of his mouth and bruising itself in doing so but still persevering. I have known people who, upon accidentally touching something – a doorpost, a wall – had to go through a certain very rapid and systematic sequence of manual contacts with various surfaces in the room before returning to a balanced existence. It cannot be helped; I must know where I stand, where you and my son stand. When that slow-motion, silent explosion of love takes place in me, unfolding its melting fringes and overwhelming me with the sense of something much vaster, much more enduring and powerful than the accumulation of matter or energy in any imaginable cosmos, then my mind cannot but pinch itself to see if it is really awake. I have to make a rapid inventory of the universe, just as a man in a dream tries to condone the absurdity of his position by making sure he is dreaming. I have to have all space and all time participate in my emotion, in my mortal love, so that the edge of its mortality is taken off, thus helping me to fight the utter degradation, ridicule, and horror of having developed an infinity of sensation and thought within a finite existence.

it appears various ancient Mystics had a hard time explaining with their archaic languages lacking the words for detailing “the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost” the Trinity concept being misunderstood by a good host the Father is the immutable unmoving Godhead from whence the Holy Ghost flows to all widespread the Son, a physical expression in those whose self is dead God can't be received fully if the “me” occupies space the sense of individual selfhood disappears without a trace the higher nature of God is formless unmanifested from it, this changing world of form is emanated everything is God, in God, all-inclusively unending ungraspable by brain-mind and its inferior comprehending people wonder, “okay, but what created God?” contemplate “Eternal” or “Infinite” to see the query flawed All is the Mind of God without exception including your Mind prior to conception formless No-Thing, yet Infinitely Everything yet both, yet neither, for it's beyond expounding

A certe latitudini c’è un arco di tempo che precede e segue il solstizio d’estate, poche settimane appena, in cui il crepuscolo diventa lungo e azzurro. [...] Passi davanti a una vetrina, t’incammini verso Central Park e ti trovi a nuotare nell’azzurro: la luce è azzurra, e nel giro di un’ora questo azzurro s’infittisce, diventa più intenso proprio mentre si oscura e sbiadisce, infine si avvicina all’azzurro delle vetrate in una giornata limpida a Chartres, o all’azzurro dell’effetto Čerenkov, prodotto dalle radiazioni elettromagnetiche nelle barre di combustibile nucleare immerse nell’acqua. I francesi chiamavano questo momento del giorno «l’heure bleue». Per gli inglesi era «the gloaming», l’imbrunire. La parola stessa è densa di echi e riverberi – l’imbrunire, il crepuscolo, il tramonto – parole che evocano immagini di persiane che si chiudono, giardini che si oscurano, fiumi con argini d’erba che scivolano nell’ombra. Durante il periodo delle notti azzurre pensi che la fine del giorno non arriverà mai. Quando le notti azzurre volgono al termine (e finiranno, e finiscono) provi un brivido improvviso, un timore di ammalarti, nel momento stesso in cui te ne accorgi: la luce azzurra se ne sta andando, le giornate si son già fatte più corte, l’estate è finita. Questo libro si intitola «Notti azzurre» perché all’epoca in cui lo iniziai i miei pensieri erano sempre più concentrati sulla malattia, sulla fine della promessa, l’affievolirsi dei giorni, l’inevitabilità della dissolvenza, la morte del fulgore. Le notti azzurre sono l’opposto della morte del fulgore, ma ne sono anche l’annuncio.

May 18 MORNING “In Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily. And ye are complete in Him.” — Colossians 2:9, 10 ALL the attributes of Christ, as God and man, are at our disposal. All the fulness of the Godhead, whatever that marvellous term may comprehend, is ours to make us complete. He cannot endow us with the attributes of Deity; but He has done all that can be done, for He has made even His divine power and Godhead subservient to our salvation. His omnipotence, omniscience, omnipresence, immutability and infallibility, are all combined for our defence. Arise, believer, and behold the Lord Jesus yoking the whole of His divine Godhead to the chariot of salvation! How vast His grace, how firm His faithfulness, how unswerving His immutability, how infinite His power, how limitless His knowledge! All these are by the Lord Jesus made the pillars of the temple of salvation; and all, without diminution of their infinity, are covenanted to us as our perpetual inheritance. The fathomless love of the Saviour’s heart is every drop of it ours; every sinew in the arm of might, every jewel in the crown of majesty, the immensity of divine knowledge, and the sternness of divine justice, all are ours, and shall be employed for us. The whole of Christ, in His adorable character as the Son of God, is by Himself made over to us most richly to enjoy. His wisdom is our direction, His knowledge our instruction, His power our protection, His justice our surety, His love our comfort, His mercy our solace, and His immutability our trust. He makes no reserve, but opens the recesses of the Mount of God and bids us dig in its mines for the hidden treasures. “All, all, all are yours,” saith He, “be ye satisfied with favour and full of the goodness of the Lord.” Oh! how sweet thus to behold Jesus, and to call upon Him with the certain confidence that in seeking the interposition of His love or power, we are but asking for that which He has already faithfully promised.

In him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily. And ye are complete in him." Colossians 2:9, 10 All the attributes of Christ, as God and man, are at our disposal. All the fulness of the Godhead, whatever that marvellous term may comprehend, is ours to make us complete. He cannot endow us with the attributes of Deity; but he has done all that can be done, for he has made even his divine power and Godhead subservient to our salvation. His omnipotence, omniscience, omnipresence, immutability and infallibility, are all combined for our defence. Arise, believer, and behold the Lord Jesus yoking the whole of his divine Godhead to the chariot of salvation! How vast his grace, how firm his faithfulness, how unswerving his immutability, how infinite his power, how limitless his knowledge! All these are by the Lord Jesus made the pillars of the temple of salvation; and all, without diminution of their infinity, are covenanted to us as our perpetual inheritance. The fathomless love of the Saviour's heart is every drop of it ours; every sinew in the arm of might, every jewel in the crown of majesty, the immensity of divine knowledge, and the sternness of divine justice, all are ours, and shall be employed for us. The whole of Christ, in his adorable character as the Son of God, is by himself made over to us most richly to enjoy. His wisdom is our direction, his knowledge our instruction, his power our protection, his justice our surety, his love our comfort, his mercy our solace, and his immutability our trust. He makes no reserve, but opens the recesses of the Mount of God and bids us dig in its mines for the hidden treasures. "All, all, all are yours," saith he, "be ye satisfied with favour and full of the goodness of the Lord." Oh! how sweet thus to behold Jesus, and to call upon him with the certain confidence that in seeking the interposition of his love or power, we are but asking for that which he has already faithfully promised.

Elegy to Black Panther" Yibambe, Mfalme, yibambe on your crossing to the ancestral land Where we imagine the Infinity Gauntlet sitting safely upon your taloned hand. Rest in power, Mfalme, sleep peacefully, for your earthly battles are won; The King of Wakanda forever, our most esteemed, Native son.

The fact of zero He added nonstop: Did you know that zero was not used throughout human history! Until 781 A.D, when it was first embodied and used in arithmetic equations by the Arab scholar Al-Khwarizmi, the founder of algebra. Algorithms took their name from him, and they are algorithmic arithmetic equations that you have to follow as they are and you will inevitably get the result, the inevitable result. And before that, across tens and perhaps hundreds of thousands of years, humans refused to deal with zero. While the first reference to it was in the Sumerian civilization, where inscriptions were found three thousand years ago in Iraq, in which the Sumerians indicated the existence of something before the one, they refused to deal with it, define it and give it any value or effect, they refused to consider it a number. All these civilizations, some of which we are still unable to decipher many of their codes, such as the Pharaonic civilization that refused to deal with zero! We see them as smart enough to build the pyramids with their miraculous geometry and to calculate the orbits of stars and planets with extreme accuracy, but they are very stupid for not defining zero in a way that they can deal with, and use it in arithmetic operations, how strange this really is! But in fact, they did not ignore it, but gave it its true value, and refused to build their civilizations on an unknown and unknown illusion, and on a wrong arithmetical frame of reference. Throughout their history, humans have looked at zero as the unknown, they refused to define it and include it in their calculations and equations, not because it has no effect, but because its true effect is unknown, and remaining unknown is better than giving it a false effect. Like the wrong frame of reference, if you rely on it, you will inevitably get a wrong result, and you will fall into the inevitability of error, and if you ignore it, your chance of getting it right remains. Throughout their history, humans have preferred to ignore zero, not knowing its true impact, while we simply decided to deal with it, and even rely on it. Today we build all our ideas, our civilization, our software, mathematics, physics, everything, on the basis that 1 + 0 equals one, because we need to find the effect of zero so that our equations succeed, and our lives succeed with, but what if 1 + 0 equals infinity?! Why did we ignore the zero in summation, and did not ignore it in multiplication?! 1×0 equals zero, why not one? What is the reason? He answered himself: There is no inevitable reason, we are not forced. Humans have lived throughout their ages without zero, and it did not mean anything to them. Even when we were unable to devise any result that fits our theorems for the quotient of one by zero, then we admitted and said unknown, and ignored it, but we ignored the logic that a thousand pieces of evidence may not prove me right, and one proof that proves me wrong. Not doing our math tables in the case of division, blowing them up completely, and with that, we decided to go ahead and built everything on that foundation. We have separated the arithmetic tables in detail at our will, to fit our calculations, and somehow separate the whole universe around us to fit these tables, despite their obvious flaws. And if we decide that the result of one multiplied by zero is one instead of zero, and we reconstruct the whole world on this basis, what will happen? He answered himself: Nothing, we will also succeed, the world, our software, our thoughts, our dealings, and everything around us will be reset according to the new arithmetic tables. After a few hundred years, humans will no longer be able to understand that one multiplied by zero equals zero, but that it must be one because everything is built on this basis.

Her son’s voice is like a piece of thread being slowly pulled away from this room, out of this house that she loves, this house filled with books and firewood and simple comforts. She follows his voice over the hide of the nearby mountains, into snowy forests stripped of their leaves, along the rugged shores of ancient lakes, across vast, unending plains of wheat and corn and lentil, through rocky mountains, deserts, canyons, and on into blue oceans of infinity.

Infinity must be destroyed, Genevieve. You know what will happen if Project Infinity is initiated.” “Richard’s plans for her don’t have to be fulfilled,” my mother pleads. “Project Infinity can be stopped without sacrificing my daughter. Your granddaughter doesn’t have to die because your son lost his mind.” “Richard’s obsession with her is what sent him into madness,” seethes Nanny Theresa as she glares at Infinity. “Every breath she breathes is a reminder of everything I have lost.” “No,” my mother replies. “Richard’s mind was twisting into madness long before she was born. I chose to ignore the signs because I loved and admired him so much. I know you saw it, too, Theresa, and you turned a blind eye, just like I did, like we all did. That blindness cost you your life . . . and it cost my father his life as well.” My mother looks sadly over at Dr. Pierce. Nanny

Consider this, my son: this earth-life is a little time, of which a third is spent asleep. What went before it, and what cometh after, are a long time--verily a time too long for measurement. Shall we be of the herd who say that dreams are a delusion because waking we can not interpret them in terms of common speech? Or shall we, rather than pretend to have more knowledge than the gods, admit that possibly some dreams may link us with that universe from which we came into a temporary world, and into which we must inevitably yield ourselves again? Some dreams are memories, it may be, of experience gained in the infinity of time before the world was. And the wisest--aye, the very wisest of us--is he altogether sure that all earth-life is not a dream.--From The Book Of The Sayings Of Tsiang Samdup

Quan­do in­fi­ne re­cu­pe­rò il fia­to fece usci­re tut­ti per par­la­re da solo col suo me­di­co. «Non mi im­ma­gi­na­vo che que­sta stron­za­ta fos­se così gra­ve da far pen­sa­re all'olio san­to» gli dis­se. «Io, che non ho la gio­ia di cre­de­re nel­la vita dell'al­tro mon­do.» «Non si trat­ta di que­sto» dis­se Ré­vé­rend. «E' noto che si­ste­ma­re le fac­cen­de del­la co­scien­za in­fon­de all'am­ma­la­to uno sta­to d'ani­mo che fa­ci­li­ta mol­to l'in­com­ben­za del me­di­co.» Il ge­ne­ra­le non pre­stò at­ten­zio­ne alla mae­stria del­la ri­spo­sta, per­ché lo fece rab­bri­vi­di­re la ri­ve­la­zio­ne ac­ce­can­te che la fol­le cor­sa fra i suoi mali e i suoi so­gni ar­ri­va­va in quel mo­men­to alla meta fi­na­le. Il re­sto era­no te­ne­bre. «Caz­zo» so­spi­rò. «Come farò a usci­re da que­sto la­bi­rin­to?» Esa­mi­nò il lo­ca­le con la chia­ro­veg­gen­za del­le sue in­son­nie, e per la pri­ma vol­ta vide la ve­ri­tà: l'ul­ti­mo let­to pre­sta­to, la toe­let­ta di pie­tà il cui fo­sco spec­chio di pa­zien­za non l'avreb­be più ri­pe­tu­to, il ba­ci­le di por­cel­la­na scro­sta­ta con l'ac­qua e l'asciu­ga­ma­no e il sa­po­ne per al­tre mani, la fret­ta sen­za cuo­re dell'oro­lo­gio ot­ta­go­na­le sfre­na­to ver­so l'ap­pun­ta­men­to ine­lut­ta­bi­le del 17 di­cem­bre all'una e set­te mi­nu­ti del suo po­me­rig­gio ul­ti­mo. Al­lo­ra in­cro­ciò le brac­cia sul pet­to e co­min­ciò a udi­re le voci rag­gian­ti de­gli schia­vi che can­ta­va­no il sal­ve del­le sei nei fran­toi, e vide dal­la fi­ne­stra il dia­man­te di Ve­ne­re nel cie­lo che se ne an­da­va per sem­pre, le nevi eter­ne, il ram­pi­can­te le cui nuo­ve cam­pa­nu­le gial­le non avreb­be vi­sto fio­ri­re il sa­ba­to suc­ces­si­vo nel­la casa sbar­ra­ta dal lut­to, gli ul­ti­mi ful­go­ri del­la vita che mai più, per i se­co­li dei se­co­li, si sa­reb­be ri­pe­tu­ta.

My Heart embraces you both with the greatest Affection, and I am much pleased at the Occasion of your Coming which calls me to the most delightful Subject in the World, to help both you and myself to rejoice in that adorable Deity whose infinite Being is an Infinity of mere Love, an unbeginning, never-ceasing, and forever overflowing Ocean of Meekness, Sweetness, Delight, Blessing, Goodness, Patience, and Mercy, and all this as so many blessed Streams breaking out of the Abyss of universal Love, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, a Triune Infinity of Love and Goodness, for ever and ever giving forth nothing but the same Gifts of Light and Love, of Blessing and Joy, whether before or after the Fall, either of Angels or Men.

Desiderii infiniti E visioni altere Crea nel vago pensiere, Per natural virtu, dotto concento ; Onde per mar delizioso, arcano Erra lo spirto umano, Quasi come a diporto Ardito notator per l'Oceano : Ma se un discorde accento Fere l'orecchio, in nulla Torna quel paradiso in un momento. Des infinis désirs Et d'altières visions Crée dans l'esprit rêvant, Par le pouvoir du son, la musique ; Ainsi par les flots inconnus, délicieux, Erre l'esprit de l'homme Comme à plaisir Un nageur audacieux dans l'Océan. Mais qu'une dissonance Blesse l'oreille et tout soudain Ce ciel retourne au rien. (Sopra il retratto di una bella donna, Sur l'effigie funéraire d'une belle dame)