Symphony Of Secrets Quotes

Had reason ever created a poem, or a symphony, or a painting? If rationality can’t see things like the secret commonwealth, it’s because rationality’s vision is limited. The secret commonwealth is there. We can’t see it with rationality any more than we can weigh something with a microscope: it’s the wrong sort of instrument. We need to imagine as well as measure ...

I hate so much that Easton Crowne is the most beautiful secret I’ll ever have and will forever be the one I’m forced to keep.

She ran straight into Leo’s open arms, unable to stop the tears from falling, feeling at last defended, like a single musical note that had finally found the symphony to which it belonged.

He was the second violin and a secret poet, which is to say that no one in the Symphony knew he wrote poetry except Kirsten and the seventh guitar.

To deny the existence of God would be to close your eyes to the beauty around you, to close your ears to the symphony of nature, to close your nostrils to the scents wafting on the breeze, to close your mouth to the delicacies of nourishment, to close your hands to the feel of luxury, to close your mind to the ability to think, and to close your heart to the only love that can penetrate the depths of the soul. For in Him all things consist, in Him we live, and move, and have our being, and without Him we cannot help but be fools.

When the symphony of life fills your heart, the chorus of contentment joins in.

It’s okay if we ever walk away from this Trying to find something else to be happy. Maybe when we come back, we will know It’s okay to hold on to what your heart wants

I decided to "find myself" in monumental sculpture. Alas, monumental sculpture is a very conservative genre. The cause is the monumentality itself. You can secretly write novels and symphonies. You can secretly experiment on canvas. But just try to hide a twelve-foot-high sculpture!

There are many different things in this world to hide, but a secret is not one of them. It is difficult to hide an airplane, for instance, because you generally need to find a deep hole or an enormous haystack, and sneak the airplane inside in the middle of the night, but it is easy to hide a secret about an airplane, because you can merely write it on a tiny piece of paper and tape it to the bottom of your mattress any time you are at home. It is difficult to hide a symphony orchestra, because you usually need to rent a soundproof room and borrow as many sleeping bags as you can find, but it is easy to hide a secret about a symphony orchestra, because you can merely whisper it into the ear of a trustworthy friend or music critic. And it is difficult to hind yourself, because you sometimes need to stuff yourself into the trunk of an automobile, or concoct a disguise out of whatever you can find, but it is easy to hide a secret about yourself because you can merely type it into a book and hope it falls into the right hands. My dear sister, if you are reading things I am still alive, and heading north to try and find you.

Complaining is my sister’s not-so-secret superpower. She is a walking frown. The soundtrack of her life is little more than a series of moans stitched together into a symphony of negativity, which I find exhausting to listen to.

We are all distinct instruments, playing our separate beautiful notes, and it is our job to play them as best we can—but when we all play together, we produce a magnificent symphony that lifts us all and makes sense of our individual roles.

...when the Gods finished creating woman, they stood back and looked at what they'd done. They had given her a body strong enough to run a marathon, a mind fast enough to do six things at once, a heart big enough to love even while it was breaking, hands that could paint a masterpiece or feed a family or write a symphony. And they were afraid, because they saw that what they made was stronger than they were. They knew they had to create a secret weapon, one thing they could use to destroy her. So they gave her children.

its heart, it is a story about the power of music and its meanings — a story of secret messages and doublespeak, and of how music itself is a code; how music coaxes people to endure unthinkable tragedy; how it allows us to whisper between the prison bars when we cannot speak aloud; how it can still comfort the suffering, saying, “Whatever has befallen you — you are not alone.

It’s like we are in a grand symphony,” Dr. Hew Len explained. “Each of us has an instrument to play. I have one, too. Your readers have theirs. None are the same. In order for the concert to play and everyone to enjoy it, they need to play their part and not another’s. We get into trouble when we don’t pick up our instrument or we think someone has a better one. That’s memory.

Elena was strangely calm now, her mind a humming blank. She said no, of course she didn’t mind, and watched Caroline move away, a symphony in auburn and gold. Stefan went with her. There was a circle of faces around Elena; she turned from them and came up against Matt. “You knew he was coming with her.” “I knew she wanted him to. She’s been following him around at lunchtime and after school, and kind of forcing herself on him. But …” “I see.” Still held in that queer, artificial calm, she scanned the crowd and saw Bonnie coming towards her, and Meredith leaving her table. They’d seen, then. Probably everyone had. Without a word to Matt, she moved towards them, heading instinctively for the girls’ rest room. It was packed with bodies, and Meredith and Bonnie kept their remarks bright and casual while looking at her with concern. “Did you see that dress?” said Bonnie, squeezing Elena’s fingers secretly. “The front must be held on with superglue. And what’s she going to wear to the next dance? Cellophane?” “Cling film,” said Meredith. She added in a low voice, “Are you OK?” “Yes.” Elena could see in the mirror that her eyes were too bright and that there was one spot of colour burning on each cheek. She smoothed her hair and turned away.

After all, across the population there are slight differences in brain function, and sometimes these translate directly into different ways of experiencing the world. And each individual believes his way is reality. To get a sense of this, imagine a world of magenta Tuesdays, tastes that have shapes, and wavy green symphonies. One in a hundred otherwise normal people experience the world this way, because of a condition called synesthesia (meaning “joined sensation”).5 In synesthetes, stimulation of a sense triggers an anomalous sensory experience: one may hear colors, taste shapes, or systematically experience other sensory blendings. For example, a voice or music may not only be heard but also seen, tasted, or felt as a touch. Synesthesia is a fusion of different sensory perceptions: the feel of sandpaper might evoke an F-sharp, the taste of chicken might be accompanied by a feeling of pinpoints on the fingertips, or a symphony might be experienced in blues and golds. Synesthetes are so accustomed to the effects that they are surprised to find that others do not share their experiences. These synesthetic experiences are not abnormal in any pathological sense; they are simply unusual in a statistical sense.

There is a myth about how something new comes to be. Geniuses have dramatic moments of insight where great things and thoughts are born whole. Poems are written in dreams. Symphonies are composed complete. Science is accomplished with eureka shrieks. Businesses are built by magic touch. Something is not, then is. We do not see the road from nothing to new, and maybe we do not want to. Artistry must be misty magic, not sweat and grind. It dulls the luster to think that every elegant equation, beautiful painting, and brilliant machine is born of effort and error, the progeny of false starts and failures, and that each maker is as flawed, small, and mortal as the rest of us. It is seductive to conclude that great innovation is delivered to us by miracle via genius. And so the myth.

The crux of the problem was this: He was at once everything and nothing she needed. Seen from afar, they were picturesque, a symphony of superior genes, a study in storybook promise. But when they were alone together, they were curiously ill suited, sometimes mortifyingly lacking in secrets to share and things to talk about. But common wisdom condoned this, did it not? Was this not the basis of a great partnership: opposition, difference of opinion. Pairing up with someone as practical as she would be terribly boring, just as coupling Tom with another dreamer would result in incompetence; that pair would never make it out of the house. Both combinations would amount to deadening and impractical redundancy. But what if it was equally dangerous to pair up two people who were so different? Were they not signing up for a lifetime of silent dinners or, worse, after-dinner spats?

Our story begins on a sweltering August night, in a sterile white room where a single fateful decision is made amid the mindless ravages of grief. But our story does not end there. It has not ended yet. Would I change the course of our lives if I could? Would I have spent my years plucking out tunes on a showboat, or turning the soil as a farmer’s wife, or waiting for a riverman to come home from work and settle in beside me at a cozy little fire? Would I trade the son I bore for a different son, for more children, for a daughter to comfort me in my old age? Would I give up the husbands I loved and buried, the music, the symphonies, the lights of Hollywood, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren who live far distant but have my eyes? I ponder this as I sit on the wooden bench, Judy’s hand in mine, the two of us quietly sharing yet another Sisters’ Day. Here in the gardens at Magnolia Manor, we’re able to have Sisters’ Day anytime we like. It is as easy as leaving my room, and walking to the next hall, and telling the attendant, “I believe I’ll take my dear friend Judy out for a little stroll. Oh yes, of course, I’ll be certain she’s delivered safely back to the Memory Care Unit. You know I always do.” Sometimes, my sister and I laugh over our clever ruse. “We’re really sisters, not friends,” I remind her. “But don’t tell them. It’s our secret.” “I won’t tell.” She smiles in her sweet way. “But sisters are friends as well. Sisters are special friends.” We recall our many Sisters’ Day adventures from years past, and she begs me to share what I remember of Queenie and Briny and our life on the river. I tell her of days and seasons with Camellia, and Lark, and Fern, and Gabion, and Silas, and Old Zede. I speak of quiet backwaters and rushing currents, the midsummer ballet of dragonflies and winter ice floes that allowed men to walk over water. Together, we travel the living river. We turn our faces to the sunlight and fly time and time again home to Kingdom Arcadia. Other days, my sister knows me not at all other than as a neighbor here in this old manor house. But the love of sisters needs no words. It does not depend on memories, or mementos, or proof. It runs as deep as a heartbeat. It is as ever present as a pulse. “Aren’t they so very sweet?

Velasquez après 50 ans, ne peignait plus jamais une chose définie. Il errait autour des objets, l’éclair et le crépuscule. Il surprenait dans l’ombre la transparence des fonds, les palpitations colorées dont il faisait le centre invisible de sa symphonie silencieuse. Il ne saisissait plus dans le monde que les échanges mystérieux qui font pénétrer les uns dans les autres, les formes et les tons par un progrès secret et continu dont aucun bruit, aucun sursaut ne dénonce ni n’interrompt la marche.

You say doctors will make the best poets. They will search your emotions by the skin; cutting open to reveal and revel with surgical precison. They will play with heavy drugs and blades-- nothing shall hide beneath the armors of bone and muscle. They know the anatomy of the heart too well. They will find the things you have hidden in your chest. I say doctors will never be poets. They are too mechanical, too fast with their edges and ridges. They cannot see the pain as pain but merely as an anomaly. That sadness is black bile not melancholia. They cannot sing to you but only clammer in medical jargon. Poets will use their imperfect words, and perfect rhymes to find the secrets of your rib cage with ease. They will find every flaw of your broken body and make it the best story you've never heard. Doctors, they will put love to define as a momentary rush of adrenaline, an arrythmia for another human caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm. Poets will tell you that love is the first jolt of life for them. They will say love is a state of euphoria that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies. Doctors say that veins carry blood devout of oxygen. I say that they carry your broken emotions to their feelings factory to mend it within its beautiful catacombs. All those doctors will find and fix you with perfect solutions. And these poets will do their best to be your perfect solution. For Aarshia. I am to be a doctor with a poet's heart.

When he was conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Artur Rodzinski said: “In our orchestra we have many nationalities, types, and temperaments. We have learned to forget individual likes, dislikes, and differences of temperament for the sake of music to which we have dedicated our lives. I often wonder if we could not solve the world’s problems on a similar basis of harmony.” “Think what a single individual in a symphony orchestra can accomplish,” the famous maestro continued, “by giving up his individual traits and ambitions in the service of music…. Suppose that in life you had the same all-embracing love for the whole of mankind and for your neighbor in particular. Only when every one of us and every nation learns the secret of love for all mankind will the world become a great orchestra, following the beat of the Greatest Conductor of all.

In Russia there is no elective government, and she is governed not merely by the rich and the high-born, but by the worst of these. She is governed by the most skillful intriguers at the tsar’s Court, by the most artful tricksters, by those who carry lies and slanders to the tsar, and flatter and toady to him. They govern in secret. . . . These officials tower above the voiceless people like a dark forest — a mere worker can never make his way through this forest, can never obtain justice.

Finally, every society develops a system of aesthetic standards that get manifested in everything from decorative art, music, and dance to the architecture and planning of buildings and communities. There are many different ways we could examine artistic systems. One way of thinking about it is to observe the degree to which a society's aesthetics reflect clear lines and solid boundaries versus fluid ones. Many Western cultures favor clean, tight boundaries whereas many Eastern cultures prefer more fluid, indiscriminate lines. In most Western homes, kitchen drawers are organized so that forks are with forks and knives are with knives. The walls of a room are usually uniform in color, and when a creative shift in color does occur, it usually happens at a corner or along a straight line midway down the wall. Pictures are framed with straight edges, molding covers up seams in the wall, and lawns are edged to form a clear line between the sidewalk and the lawn. Why? Because we view life in terms of classifications, categories, and taxonomies. And cleanliness itself is largely defined by the degree of order that exists. It has little to do with sanitation and far more to do with whether things appear to be in their proper place. Maintaining boundaries is essential in the Western world; otherwise categories begin to disintegrate and chaos sets in.13 Most Americans want dandelion-free lawns and roads with clear lanes prescribing where to drive and where not to drive. Men wear ties to cover the adjoining fabric on the shirts that they put on before going to the symphony, where they listen to classical music based on a scale with seven notes and five half steps. Each note has a fixed pitch, defined in terms of the lengths of the sound waves it produces.14 A good performance occurs when the musicians hit the notes precisely. In contrast, many Eastern cultures have little concern in everyday life for sharp boundaries and uniform categories. Different colors of paint may be used at various places on the same wall. And the paint may well “spill” over onto the window glass and ceiling. Meals are a fascinating array of ingredients where food is best enjoyed when mixed together on your plate. Roads and driving patterns are flexible. The lanes ebb and flow as needed depending on the volume of traffic. In a place like Cambodia or Nigeria, the road space is available for whichever direction a vehicle needs it most, whatever the time of day. And people often meander along the road in their vehicles the same way they walk along a path. There are many other ways aesthetics between one place and another could be contrasted. But the important point is some basic understanding of how cultures differ within the realm of aesthetics. Soak in the local art of a place and chalk it up to informing your strategy for international business.

But after a little while I got used to the tedium, understanding that these parts of my work were as essential to the arabesques of the final pattern as the rest bars are to a symphony.

My heart was beating in a symphony of love and happiness I had never felt before

He saw the hiding people, their whispers sounded like the turning of a thousand pages – pages filled with stories he yearned to read.

Within these walls, That keep us in; We muffle calls, We don’t begin. Here dancing is fighting, And serpents speak truth, Forever denying, A voice of youth. And so, we’re trapped in silence, Never to kick free from the viscous prison, Awaiting the talons of the next tyrant, Never to recall heroes once risen. Never to speak, Never to see.

Sestina" For a week now our bodies have whispered together, telling each other secrets you and I would keep. Their language, harder and more tender than this, wakes us suddenly in the half dawn, tangled dragons on their map. They have a plan. We are stranded travelers who plan to ditch our bags and walk. The hill wind whispers danger and rain. We are going different ways. That tangled thornbush is where the road forks. The secrets we told on the station bench to keep awake were lies. I suspect from your choice of language that you are not speaking your native language. You will not know about the city plan tattooed behind my knee. But the skin wakes up in humming networks, audibly whispers over the dead wind. Everybody’s secrets jam the wires. Syllables get tangled with bus tickets and matchbooks. You tangled my hair in your fingers and language split like a black fig. I suck the secrets off your skin. This isn’t in the plan, the subcutaneous transmitter whispers. Be circumspect. What sort of person wakes up twice in a wrecked car? And we wake in wary seconds of each other, tangled damply together. Your cock whispers inside my thigh that there is language without memory. Your fingers plan wet symphonies in my garrulous secret places. There is nothing secret in people crying at weddings and singing at wakes; and when you pack a duffel bag and plan on the gratuitous, you will still tangle purpose and habit, more baggage, more language. It is not accidental what they whisper. Our bodies whispered under the sheet. Their secret language will not elude us when we wake into the tangled light without a plan.

Iris paused when she realized Attie wasn’t behind her. “Do you remember everything I taught you, Thea?” Mr. Attwood was saying. “How could I forget, Papa?” Attie countered mirthfully, but it sounded like she was about to cry. “I used to think I would play in the symphony one day.” “Yes, and all those hours you devoted to that dream, playing in secret.” Her father paused, caressing her cheek with his knuckles. “Now I see all those moments prepared you for this one. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Be careful.” He kissed her brow. Attie rapidly blinked back tears.

This is a tale of microfilm canisters and secret police, of Communists and capitalists, of battles lost and wars won. It is the tale of a utopian dream that turned into a dystopian nightmare. It is the tale of Dmitri Shostakovich and of his beloved city, Leningrad. But at its heart, it is a story about the power of music and its meanings — a story of secret messages and doublespeak, and of how music itself is a code; how music coaxes people to endure unthinkable tragedy; how it allows us to whisper between the prison bars when we cannot speak aloud; how it can still comfort the suffering, saying, 'Whatever has befallen you — you are not alone.

This is a tale of microfilm canisters and secret police, of Communists and capitalists, of battles lost and wars won. It is the tale of a utopian dream that turned into a dystopian nightmare. It is the tale of Dmitri Shostakovich and of his beloved city, Leningrad. But at its heart, it is a story about the power of music and its meanings — a story of secret messages and doublespeak, and of how music itself is a code; how music coaxes people to endure unthinkable tragedy; how it allows us to whisper between the prison bars when we cannot speak aloud; how it can still comfort the suffering, saying, "Whatever has befallen you — you are not alone.

Josie. We’ve been through this. You know people wouldn’t want your music if they knew you were colored.” I don’t believe you, she thought hotly. They love music because it has all colors. But

In the tranquil embrace of the night, a falling star whispers secrets to the cosmic dance, while a distant neutron star quietly guards its celestial realm, both unseen witnesses to the universe's silent symphony.

Plainly, she is not coming back. I can tell by the pattern of the cracks in the plaster. There’s a code there, a message. Like the secret message in the final bars of Shostakovich’s fifteenth and last symphony. Faint cryptic signals, like the clicking of a telegraph key, against the remote and sustained monotone of the violins—a song from outer space. What was he trying to tell us?

The clock of my heart and the clock of my body have never shown the same time. I envy people who are synchronized, who are always their proper age. They have the secret of easy living.

Your drawing!” Her lantern fell to the ground, the candle flame blowing out as she ran after the flying parchment and tackled it. “So fierce,” Falco murmured, holding out a hand to help Cass to her feet. “I’m beginning to enjoy picking you up off the ground.” Cass looked down at the paper in her hand, which had unrolled during its journey across the grass. The moonlight illuminated what he had drawn: a gorgeous reproduction of the gravestone with the doves on top. Cass flipped the parchment over. On the other side, Falco had sketched the rough outline of a woman’s body. Cass’s breath caught; she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the figure. She marveled at the sharpness of the knees and elbows, at the soft roundness of the figure’s breasts. The face was still a heart-shaped blank, but the hair looked familiar: it fell in thick, lustrous waves like Cass’s own. Falco laughed, leaning in close to Cass. “It almost looks like you’re blushing. Why? It’s not like you’ve never seen a woman’s body before.” “You’ve obviously seen more than I have,” Cass said sharply. Her fingers trembled as she handed the parchment back to Falco, trying to look everywhere but at the drawing, wishing he hadn’t seen her staring at it. Who is she? She wanted to ask, but the words held fast to her lips. “If I have, it’s a shame.” Even in the dark, his eyes were flashing. “If I had your body, I’d stare at it for hours. Days, maybe.” Cass sucked in a sharp breath. “You can’t just say things like that. It’s not, it’s not--” “Proper?” Falco finished. “Perhaps. I didn’t mean it to be offensive. A woman’s body is a beautiful thing.” He took ahold of Cass’s hand and twisted it from side to side, opening and closing her fingers. “The human form, it’s a symphony. Tiny interlocking movements that join together in song.” He slid his hands down over her knuckles until he was gripping the very tips of her fingers. “You play a more delicate tune than I do. Have you never noticed?

The human form, it’s a symphony. Tiny interlocking movements that join together in song.” He slid his hands down over her knuckles until he was gripping the very tips of her fingers. “You play a more delicate tune than I do. Have you never noticed?” Cass stared at her own hand. She tried to visualize the structures beneath her skin--the bones and muscles, the strange ropelike things connecting the two. It was hard to focus. Falco’s touch was so warm. “I’m not in the habit of staring at myself,” she said, pulling away. “It’s vain.” Falco shook his head. “How terrible it must be to be a member of the noble class. So many rules. Such restraint. You must feel like a caged bird, battering its wings against the sides of its golden prison.” Cass didn’t say anything for a second. That was exactly how she felt, and he had put it into words better than she had ever been able to do. She repeated the sentence in her mind, intending to write it in her journal when she returned home. But even though it was true, she didn’t want to admit to Falco that he was right. “I’m no one’s pet,” she insisted. “You’re not?” Falco raised an eyebrow. The way he was looking at her made Cass feel out of breath. He tucked the bit of parchment into the pocket of her cloak. “Keep it,” he said. “You can hang it in your cage.” Then he turned as if to go. “I mean it!” Cass cried out. “I’m not like all the others.” She realized she was squeezing her hands into fists. “Is that so?” Falco turned back toward her, and all of the air went out of Cass’s chest. They were separated by half an inch of space. She was hot all over, as though someone had lit a fire under her skin. Falco stared at her so intensely, she felt she could fall into his eyes, into the swirling mists she saw reflected there. “Yes,” she whispered. His lips quirked into a small smile. “Prove it,” he said.

He had his back to Cass, his face resting against a carved cherub as he absentmindedly plucked various strings. Cass stared, watching the movement of his neck and back and shoulders: pieces of motion that were discrete, yet interconnected. She remembered his words from the graveyard. The human form, it’s a symphony. Tiny interlocking movements that join together in song. “It’s about time,” he said, without turning around. He turned slowly, then. The blue eyes. The crooked grin. Cass started to greet him, but her voice stuck in her throat. She reached out for the curlicue bottom of the stairway banister, gripping the bronze for a second, reminding herself that there were no feelings. No. Feelings. She flicked her eyes back up at him, felt her lips forming a smile independent of any command by her brain. Falco cocked an eyebrow. “A beautiful woman who doesn’t speak. Every man’s dream.” “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Cass shot back. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” Or ever. “I’d thought you might have learned that with me, you must expect the unexpected.” Falco got up from his seat in front of Agnese’s harp, and it was Cass’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Falco was wearing a flowing white chemise overlaid with an embroidered black and silver doublet and knee-length breeches. His hair still curled forward toward his face, but it looked sleeker than usual, as if he had attempted to tame it with some kind of paste. “Why are you dressed like that?” she asked. “Are you going to Mass?” Not likely since Falco professed not to even believe in God.

As musicologist Richard Taruskin has said, “What made Shostakovich’s music the secret diary of a nation was not only what he put into it, but what it allowed listeners to draw out.

There was one important exception, however: after Hitler secretly sent death squads to assassinate all his rivals in the Nazi Party — a bloodbath known as the Night of Long Knives — Stalin couldn’t help but admire his enemy’s ingenuity. “Did you hear what happened in Germany?” he gushed to an adviser. “Some fellow, that Hitler! Splendid! That’s a deed of some skill!

Songs of Resilience In the embrace of dreams, just hours ago, A peaceful respite from the relentless woe. A pounding headache, an unwelcome guest, Little did I know, life's twists manifest. Within this short span, reality unfolds, Intricate tales in life's narrative, it molds. The stillness of night, a canvas unknown, Does fate weave a story, or am I on my own? Ups and downs, orchestrated or chance, Life's peculiar dance, a cosmic trance. Unknowingly scripting each fleeting scene, A puzzle of purpose in moments between. Change, the sole constant in this grand display, Amidst chaos, paving the extraordinary way. Understanding life's symphony, a daunting quest, Yet, in unraveling, the soul finds rest. Amidst uncertainty, duty stands tall, To weather the storm, to rise after a fall. Life's complexities may dance and twirl, Yet, steadfast commitment, an unwavering swirl. The universe, keeper of secrets untold, Yet my promises, my dreams, I'll hold. In a world of rights, respect is key, Through unexpected journeys, I'll journey with glee. Adversities may knock, storms may roar, Hope clung to, dreams cherished, forevermore. In the face of bad, promises kept, Through life's ebb and flow, I'll intercept. For every twist, every turn, in this grand scheme, I stand resolute, keeping my hope and dream. In the tapestry of life, a promise redeemed, Through the unexpected, my spirit esteemed.

Bizet had effectively used an alto sax in his L’Arlésienne Suite,

Men travel by many different paths. Whoever tracks and compares their ways will see wonderful figures arising; figures that seem to belong to the great Manuscript of Design which we descry everywhere, [...] From afar I heard one say: "Unintelligibility originates in Unintelligence. This seeks what it already has, and therefore attains to nothing further. Speech is not understood, because speech does not understand itself, and will not be understood. Genuine Sanscrit speaks for the sake of speaking, because speech is its pleasure and its essence." Not long after this another said: "Holy Writ needs no commentary. Whoso speaks truly is full of everlasting life, and his Evangel seems to us wonderfully linked with Genuine Secrets, for it is a harmony out of the Universal Symphony." The Voice must certainly have spoken of our Master, for he knows how to collect the indications that are scattered on all sides.