In Schwegler, as you went on you went deeper. You saw thought folding and unfolding, thought moving on and on, thought drawing the universe to itself, pushing the universe away from itself to draw it back again, closer than close.
Space and Time were forms of thought. They were infinite. So thought was infinite; it went on and on for ever, carrying Space, carrying Time.
If only you knew what the Thing-in-itself was.
II.
"Mamma—"
The letter lay between them on the hall table by the study door. Her mother put her hand over it, quick. A black, long-tailed M showed between her forefinger and her thumb.
They looked at each other, and her mother's mouth began to pout and smile as it used to when Papa said something improper. She took the letter and went, with soft feet and swinging haunches like a cat carrying a mouse, into the study. Mary stared at the shut door.
Maurice Jourdain. Maurice Jourdain. What on earth was he writing to Mamma for?
Five minutes ago she had been quiet and happy, reading Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. Now her heart beat like a hammer, staggering with its own blows. The blood raced in her brain.