There Are Worries That Seem To Me

There Is So Little To Remember Of Anyone - An Anecdote, A Conversation At A Table. But Every Memory Is Turned Over And Over Again, Every Word, However Chance, Written In The Heart In The Hope That Memory Will Fulfill Itself, And Become Flesh, And That The Wanderers Will Find A Way Home, And The Perished, Whose Lack We Always Feel, Will Step Through The Door Finally And Stroke Our Hair With Dreaming Habitual Fondness Not Having Meant To Keep Us Waiting Long.

... But It's Your Existence I Love You For, Mainly. Existence Seems To Me Now The Most Remarkable Thing That Could Ever Be Imagined.

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?

There Is No Justice In Love, No Proportion In It, And There Need Not Be, Because In Any Specific Instance It Is Only A Glimpse Or Parable Of An Embracing, Incomprehensible Reality. It Makes No Sense At All Because It Is The Eternal Breaking In On The Temporal. So How Could It Subordinate Itself To Cause Or Consequence?

I Have Spent My Life Watching, Not To See Beyond The World, Merely To See, Great Mystery, What Is Plainly Before My Eyes. I Think The Concept Of Transcendence Is Based On A Misreading Of Creation. With All Respect To Heaven, The Scene Of The Miracle Is Here, Among Us. The Eternal As An Idea Is Much Less Preposterous Than Time, And This Very Fact Should Seize Our Attention.