Nothing True Can Be Said About God

I Think I Am Like Most People In Letting Myself Worry About Things That Didn't Matter. Concepts Like Quotidian And Humdrum Prevented Me For Years From Really Absorbing The Miraculous Strangeness Of Bombing Around A Star On A Tottering Planet, Of Watching The World Unfold In Time.

I Wish I Could Leave You Certain Of The Images In My Mind, Because They Are So Beautiful That I Hate To Think They Will Be Extinguished When I Am. Well, But Again, This Life Has Its Own Mortal Loveliness. And Memory Is Not Strictly Mortal In Its Nature, Either. It Is A Strange Thing, After All, To Be Able To Return To A Moment, When It Can Hardly Be Said To Have Any Reality At All, Even In Its Passing. A Moment Is Such A Slight Thing. I Mean, That Its Abiding Is A Most Gracious Reprieve.

I Don't Think I Would Worry About An Oversaturation Of Information If It Was Indeed Information. It Is The Slovenly, Hasty Traffic In Cliché And Sensationalism And Bad Reasoning That Bothers Me. I Love Finding Arcane Primary Texts On The Web. The People Who Think To Put Them Up Are Heroes Of Mine.

And Often Enough, When We Think We Are Protecting Ourselves, We Are Struggling Against Our Rescuer.

Ascension Seemed At Such Times A Natural Law. If One Added To It A Law Of Completion - That Everything Must Finally Be Made Comprehensible - Then Some General Rescue Of The Sort I Imagined My Aunt To Have Undertaken Would Be Inevitable. For Why Do Our Thoughts Turn To Some Gesture Of A Hand, The Fall Of A Sleeve, Some Corner Of A Room On A Particular Anonymous Afternoon, Even When We Are Asleep, And Even When We Are So Old That Our Thoughts Have Abandoned Other Business? What Are All These Fragments For , If Not To Be Knit Up Finally?