...it is ... the infinite whom we seek in our pleasures...*
After a day too warm and too humid for much thought or action, only walking, rest, worry notes, and the washing-up that's been accumulating for days but is now done, I find (by random number) a book I want to read - and in it some words that I enjoy.
I don't remember ever writing of 'the infinite' - or of the eternal, or of God - for I don't believe in these abstractions, but now, still 'inspired' by Spinoza's theory of god and nature being identical, I'm beginning to think and to write of these unspeakables.
Recently I've noticed a similar idea in the writings of Gregory Bateson - and today in the writing of Rabindranath Tagore. And now I seem to be breaking a modern taboo against writing such words myself, for I cannot otherwise describe or discover my thoughts...
And what Tagore says of the infinite - that it is not a possession, not something to 'add to our stores' - it is an apprehension of the unspeakable whole - his way of writing of 'everything' - I find inspiring, permissable and not superstitious - I hope.
It's not a mystical thing, apart from what we see and touch, etc., it is a recognition that what we can perceive and describe is not the whole, and that the whole is both real and indescribable, except poetically, colloquially, or in other kind of language that is not meant to be taken as fact.* Rabindranath Tagore, Sadhana, Macmillan & Co, London 1913, page 150.
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