It follows that a fragment was a writer in the pre-Sanskrit tongues, and another was Abbé le Maître.
Of course—we want to be God's Little Helpers, wee bits of Him, and put it back together again so as to become Timeless composites of His Awareness.
Shall we, therefore, on the epochal day when the island universes start homing, be wise enough to rejoice?
When brighter, brighter, brighter glows the firmament?
When night becomes as day, and day as a blast furnace?
(Or—will the infalling clots by then be cold and ourselves so drowned and immobilized at the bottoms of hydrocarbon oceans as to be already avid for one more experimental whirl?)
Think why you fornicate! Is it not to bring together again these thunderous, silent fires? To perform your little, local reassertion of the reburgeoning I-am-so-God-is?
Look at the stars! What suitable illumination shines for love from every pretty pore of heaven!
Look at the city! The noisiest palaver of tenement, of factory and store—the talked-up edifices that speak back anathema—(removed some ways, or in some degree) lose their ugliness. Even they are like the stars which are beauty at a distance and might be beautiful close up—if you knew how to see, there.
Heat's haze—night's dark—snow—the gentle perspectives.