It occurred to Him that the perfection whereof he was the Cognizant Comptroller might be more interesting if set in motion. A slight swirl, perhaps: something gentle, along an elliptical path. (Such an impulse, of course, expresses a Flaw in God's consciousness, or perhaps only an extra electron in the whole, or--it may be--the infinite tedium of Infinity; most likely of all, the idea that Perfection is predictably unpredictable.) Anyhow--one deduced that He gave all His electrons and His positrons a twist. Naturally, there followed an explosion. Naturally, this puffed Space into existence, to make room for itself. (Out went the windows, the doors, and the walls.) It follows that a fragment was a writer in the pre-Sanskrit tongues, and another was Abbé le Maître. Of course--we want to be God's Little Helpers, wee bits of Him, and put it back together again so as to become Timeless composites of His Awareness. Shall we, therefore, on the epochal day when the island universes start homing, be wise enough to rejoice? When brighter, brighter, brighter glows the firmament? When night becomes as day, and day as a blast furnace? (Or--will the infalling clots by then be cold and ourselves so drowned and immobilized at the bottoms of hydrocarbon oceans as to be already avid for one more experimental whirl?) Think why you fornicate! Is it not to bring together again these thunderous, silent fires? To perform your little, local reassertion of the reburgeoning I-am-so-God-is? Look at the stars! What suitable illumination shines for love from every pretty pore of heaven! Look at the city! The noisiest palaver of tenement, of factory and store--the talked-up edifices that speak back anathema--(removed some ways, or in some degree) lose their ugliness. Even they are like the stars which are beauty at a distance and might be beautiful close up--if you knew how to see, there. Heat's haze--night's dark--snow--the gentle perspectives. Look at the night! The infernal Jersey shore battled the oblivion with Mazda bulbs, neon, sizzling arcs, and the globe's shadow eliminated all but beauty. Lights swam on the river. Antediluvian animals with pairs of red-green eyes swam up and down the Hudson. Fish from the abyss--mammoth--with ladders of light along their shining sides surfaced and sloshed in the current, hooting and humming. Ah, Jersey! Fields of phosphorescent flowers and hills set out with lantern-bearing trees! Night-blooming paradise! The magic is our own--collective. What matter that beneath one particular lavender string of streetlights mad boys pitch clinking pennies--curse--push frowsy, young, reluctant girls up alleyways--and mad, obscene old men tipple in bars that reek with millenniums of human hellishness--and mad, subpersonal old women maliciously fling slops in the yards of their neighbors? This is not the one man but his panorama.