The soul's oeuvre, its great work, is a portrayal; and to sensually feel it as strokes in a medium rather than as the world to be inferred, to have dissolved into the nectar of the absolute for a moment, is no escape from the logic of shadows, from fiction's ineluctable blow, its gestures which mimic proof, like a hypnotism on God or on what God is made of, an alchemical device there is no shrugging off.
 
 












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