Indi, come orologio che ne chiami

nell’ora che la sposa di Dio surge
a mattinar lo sposo perchè l’ami,
che l’una parte l’altra tira e urge,
tin tin sonando con sì dolce nota,
che ‘l ben disposto spirto d’amor turge;
così vid’ io la glorïosa rota
muoversi e render voce a voce in tempra
ed in dolcezza ch’esser non pò nota
se non colà dove gioir s’ insempra.

– from Paradiso, Dante Alighieri
(via George MacDonald)

White-raving storm of molten metals,

[the Sun] is but a coal from the altar of the Father’s never-ending sacrifice to his children. See every little flower straighten its stalk, lift up its neck, and with outstretched head stand expectant: something more than the sun, greater than the light, is coming, is coming – none the less surely coming that it is long upon the road! What matters to-day, or to-morrow, or ten thousand years to Life himself, to Love himself! He is coming, is coming, and the necks of all humanity are stretched out to see him come! Every morning will they thus outstretch themselves, every evening will they droop and wait – until he comes. – Is this but an airdrawn vision? When he comes, will he indeed find them watching thus?

Lilith, chapter XLV,
George MacDonald

When a heart is really alive,

then it is able to think live things. There is one heart all whose thoughts are strong, happy creatures, and whose very dreams are lives. When some pray, they lift heavy thoughts from the ground, only to drop them on it again; others send up their prayers in living shapes, this or that, the nearest likeness to each. All live things were thoughts to begin with, and are fit therefore to be used by those that think. When one says to the great Thinker: –“Here is one of thy thoughts: I am thinking it now!” that is a prayer – a word to the big heart from one of its own little hearts.

– Mr. Raven to the Narrator,
Lilith, chapter V,
George MacDonald

The sculpting was highly complex, one pattern shifted into another,

and the geometry of congruent figures kept drawing the eye away from the light. It was not sculpture, of course, since no one had hewn and worked this stone of the Horn. The form, commencing from the first seeds, had eaten into the asteroid’s cold ground and heaved in a wave of nanotransformations until, particle by particle, there rose here the memorial of Ugerzo’s gratitude. But how much can be contained in a seed’s starting algorithms, in an architectonic code of crysthorn? […] Surely all this could not have been provided by the code of an initiating seed. […]

It seems unlikely that the planners had written into the seeds the future position of every piece of Izmir mineral, ergodic autoprogramming doesn’t work that way, one must leave room for chaos. So if it wasn’t the hand of the planners, whose hand was it? Whose was the talent behind this carving? Who gave grace to the fragile angels, put blood lust in the brows of the stalagmite demons, framed the illusion of refractive flow through the Cathedral’s epithelium?

– Katedra (The Cathedral) (2000),
Jacek Dukaj

Can’t Take it In

Can’t close my eyes
They’re wide awake
Every hair on my body
Has got a thing for this place

Oh empty my heart!
I’ve got to make room for this feeling
It’s so much bigger than me

It could not be anymore beautiful
I can’t take it in
La, la, la…

Weightless in love
Unravelling
For all that’s to come
And all that’s ever been

We’re back to the part
With every shade under the sun
Let’s make it a good one

It could not be anymore beautiful
It could not be anymore beautiful
I can’t take it in
I can’t take it in
I can’t take it in…

All that I wonder…
All that I ever needed…

– “Can’t Take It In”
Imogen Heap, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe soundtrack (2005)

And then, the stars came out. […]

[…] And there were a thousand, no ten thousand, no ten million billion stars filling the darkness. The stars were manifold and bright, and they did not care. Even then he had known: they do not care. If I breathe or do not breathe, live or die, the eyes that look from all around don’t care.

…Beneath his feet, space opened wide and let through yet another billion sparks of light.

He was suspended as a fly is held upon a vast telescopic lens. He walked on a water of space. He stood upon a transparent flex of great eye, and all about him, as on a night in winter, beneath foot and above head, in all directions, were nothing but stars.

…And Wilder stood again in space where God had stood before creating a world out of Chaos.

– The Lost City of Mars,
Ray Bradbury