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Page 20.
— v —
We each walk down our own long corridors of many closed doors. We open a door on some impulse, having no idea what lies beyond. We step into the unknown which in time becomes the familiar past, but the door remains a passage to our unknowable future. Only the moment around us is illumined, more with questions than with answers, while larger time remains dark. It is best that we do not look beyond the breath-taking beauty of the moment.
In the farthest-looking telescope, just as in the closest-looking microscope, we become only atoms once again. Everything is revealed, but nothing is known, because nothing matters anymore when everything has been settled and done; when the equations of life—of time and action, of love and war—have been reduced and canceled to their lowest common orbits.
Like my father on that West African beach, with the smoke and stench of war still in the blue air, I embrace the granularity of the moment. Wounded though he was, and staggering with a gun in his hand, he relished the feel of wet sand between his bare toes. He swathed himself in balmy air and fresh wind as the golden atoms of the day reconstituted themselves—as they inevitably do, time being an endless machine of uncountable and immeasurable infinitesimal parts.
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