last forever, in the places where things are most powerful and truly endure, in the living dreams of the universe.
17
He suspected, in a flash, how he too was doomed. But before he could reduce the intuition to a thought, he felt his guide leaving him. He felt his departing guide as a clear melody, a perfect enigma.
His mind became as anonymous as the night. Unfinished thoughts bristled in the dark loggias of his consciousness.
The guide, in his unique way, had passed on to him some things he needed to know. He had done this mysteriously, and in silence. The guide had made him hear them in the air, from the city stones, from the architecture, and from the streets. The guide had made the night speak to him.
The guide left without a farewell, and yet a sweetness lingered, as of sweet moments spent in the company of the serene and rich in spirit.
On that island, even the children were wise.
1
He was standing there, alone, in the middle of the square, when he saw a mattress with white bedcovers brought to him in the dark. He didnât see the people who brought it, but they put the mattress on the stone floor of the square, dressed it neatly into a bed, and left. Soon afterwards unseen hands brought him a jug of water, a diamond glass for drinking, a rose, and a cluster of grapes. They set them down at the head of his bed. Then, not long afterwards, they brought him a lamp which glowed brightly, but whose glow created not illumination, but a deeper darkness. Then, finally, they brought him a mirror.
When they left, the square was silent again. Then the breeze blew through, stirring the memories of the stones, awakening the dreams of the open spaces, and reviving the darkened forms under the bristling loggias.
2
The darkness was intense all around him because of the lampâs paradoxical glow, but farther away things were clearer. The square seemed bathed in a softly radiant moonlight.
He sat gently in the mystery of the square. He sat on his white bed, afloat in limpid moonlight. The palace loomed before him with its impenetrable walls and its massive gate. The great flag and its symbols fluttered in the gentle breeze, sending the hidden meaning of its sign and motto to all the regions of the mysterious land.
3
He contemplated the overwhelming mystery of the square. He studied its bronze equestrian rider. He gazed upon its sea-god and horses emerging from a giant fountain of adamant. And he pondered its guardian figure of an ancient prophet-king who stood poised in dreaming marble before his own mystic annunciation of courage.
The equestrian rider was on a high diamond platform. With the hand bearing the shining sword of truth, he was pointing ever-forward to a great destiny and destination, never to be reached, because if reached the people and their journey would perish. He was pointing to an ever-moving destination, unspecified except in myth, the place of absolute self-realisation and contentment which must always be just beyond the reach of the brave land, but not so much beyond reach that the people would give up in perfectionâs despair, and set up tent somewhere between the sixth and final mountain.
The horse, with one mighty foot raised, was itself a sign and a dream. Its head was lofty and its eyes blazed with the will of the master.
The equestrian rider, massive, proud, and humble, was bathed in darkness, and partly hidden. It stood off the centre of the square. It was awkwardly placed, and yet remained the strange focus of all the geometric measurements and the astrological configurations. It always had to be rediscovered.
5
The figure of the prophet-king stands in the space between loggia and palace, and has stood there for centuries, old in time, young in myth, fresh in body. He stands at the intersection between visibility and invisibility. He also stands at the moment before â the moment before he enters into legend.
Anxiety is etched on his brow. Supreme calm reigns over his
17
He suspected, in a flash, how he too was doomed. But before he could reduce the intuition to a thought, he felt his guide leaving him. He felt his departing guide as a clear melody, a perfect enigma.
His mind became as anonymous as the night. Unfinished thoughts bristled in the dark loggias of his consciousness.
The guide, in his unique way, had passed on to him some things he needed to know. He had done this mysteriously, and in silence. The guide had made him hear them in the air, from the city stones, from the architecture, and from the streets. The guide had made the night speak to him.
The guide left without a farewell, and yet a sweetness lingered, as of sweet moments spent in the company of the serene and rich in spirit.
On that island, even the children were wise.
1
He was standing there, alone, in the middle of the square, when he saw a mattress with white bedcovers brought to him in the dark. He didnât see the people who brought it, but they put the mattress on the stone floor of the square, dressed it neatly into a bed, and left. Soon afterwards unseen hands brought him a jug of water, a diamond glass for drinking, a rose, and a cluster of grapes. They set them down at the head of his bed. Then, not long afterwards, they brought him a lamp which glowed brightly, but whose glow created not illumination, but a deeper darkness. Then, finally, they brought him a mirror.
When they left, the square was silent again. Then the breeze blew through, stirring the memories of the stones, awakening the dreams of the open spaces, and reviving the darkened forms under the bristling loggias.
2
The darkness was intense all around him because of the lampâs paradoxical glow, but farther away things were clearer. The square seemed bathed in a softly radiant moonlight.
He sat gently in the mystery of the square. He sat on his white bed, afloat in limpid moonlight. The palace loomed before him with its impenetrable walls and its massive gate. The great flag and its symbols fluttered in the gentle breeze, sending the hidden meaning of its sign and motto to all the regions of the mysterious land.
3
He contemplated the overwhelming mystery of the square. He studied its bronze equestrian rider. He gazed upon its sea-god and horses emerging from a giant fountain of adamant. And he pondered its guardian figure of an ancient prophet-king who stood poised in dreaming marble before his own mystic annunciation of courage.
The equestrian rider was on a high diamond platform. With the hand bearing the shining sword of truth, he was pointing ever-forward to a great destiny and destination, never to be reached, because if reached the people and their journey would perish. He was pointing to an ever-moving destination, unspecified except in myth, the place of absolute self-realisation and contentment which must always be just beyond the reach of the brave land, but not so much beyond reach that the people would give up in perfectionâs despair, and set up tent somewhere between the sixth and final mountain.
The horse, with one mighty foot raised, was itself a sign and a dream. Its head was lofty and its eyes blazed with the will of the master.
The equestrian rider, massive, proud, and humble, was bathed in darkness, and partly hidden. It stood off the centre of the square. It was awkwardly placed, and yet remained the strange focus of all the geometric measurements and the astrological configurations. It always had to be rediscovered.
5
The figure of the prophet-king stands in the space between loggia and palace, and has stood there for centuries, old in time, young in myth, fresh in body. He stands at the intersection between visibility and invisibility. He also stands at the moment before â the moment before he enters into legend.
Anxiety is etched on his brow. Supreme calm reigns over his
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