“ ‘No, the God has not died, he is us moment to moment, or better said, he will be us. Because we all wilt with the desire to become organs, glands, systems and apparatuses in his body, neurons in his thalamus, sperm in his eggs, or simply quarks in the abyss of his matter. And our whole world is only the heaving, the pitching of selves toward him. He is not He-Who-Is, but much more: He-Who-Will-Be. God has not died, rather he has yet to be born. All of us, already illuminated by his foreknowledge (because our flesh is the herald, our flesh is the good news), being only the supposition of our future being, we will one day be him, he will one day be born in us, so that he can someday give us birth. And just as the poet is preceded and formed by the form-without-words of his poems, so God himself is born from the center of his creation so that he may create it. All worlds exist to be existed. All are pregnant with their own gods, the monads are women heavy with statues of light, the starry tree is blossoming, and in the ovaries of its flowers are void and happiness. All creators are the creatures of their creatures and are born to create them, in unfissurable duality.
“ ‘We are creation. In a superior world someone will write, letter by letter, or will draw, feature by feature, the sublime and grotesque of our silhouettes. And any gesture we can make, we make because one day it will be described in a work. We are unable to conceive of, or to experience what will not be written. We speak what is put in our mouths, we see what is given to us to see, and what happens is what is written to happen to us. But we are creation before it is created, because to be created always supposes creating. We are here on a limb, at the edge of existence, because what is the center if not an edge inside? Descending in our minds, for years and years, with stubbornness, writhing, and sleeplessness, clenching our teeth until they shatter, leaving behind a trail of saliva, blood, dejection, logic, calcium, and fear, we come here to find ourselves one moment, at the end of our lives — facing our lives, which have arisen before our eyes like a monumental stairway, but one where we cannot take a step, not because weakness impedes us — no, we do not lack for will — but because we are here at the impassible edge of edgelessness, and however many steps we climb we will still be at the edge, and even if the light of our being would grow a thousand times with every step, the next step will find us just as profane, marginal, and opaque as the first step we’ve ever taken. In this way we will wander eternally, on Jacob’s ladder, at the peripheries of Divinity, on the vacant lots of revelation, wilting while we regard the far-off spring of fire. We cannot enter eternity gradually. Wonder is not given in a series of steps. Beyond the walls are other walls, and beyond those walls other walls, and wonder is the sight of endless walls arranged close to each other, the way the rose is not its center but the scented arrangement of its petals, its edges, and its surfaces. You will suddenly snap the crystal rose from its iridium tail, because tearing off petal after petal is pointless.
“ ‘Because we are creation before it is created, we have gathered here all of those who will be created (for you know this much, Those Who Know: that you will be created, and that those who do not know will never exist in this world, just as in a book no miriapod or hero or smile exists if the author does not write: “miriapod,” “hero,” “smile,” and in fact, you, knowing, already existed and existing, you are already saved, albeit only by salvation), out of the limitless fear of staying on this limb forever. I imagine the howls of horror from all the unborn — unbeing must be only self-horror and self-terror, only cries from the inferno. Out of fear we dive into ourselves, calling on our god like a child in a dark room calls for his mother. What we do not know is that the God, now, whimpers with fear, because he too is not yet a god, the way a woman is not a mother until she has borne a child. So we walk blindly toward one another, through fear, the world, and its god, World and God.
“ ‘We are here to give birth to our mother. To give birth to the One who will give us birth. It’s true, the Exit is barred and we will not give birth to ourselves in other worlds. We will not emerge from this stomach, rather, we are all the stomach from which He will be born, because any world is a stomach that swells and contracts. We will save ourselves through him, inventing him, conceiving him, and he will seem to grow within our world, but in fact, he will grow within an enormous world, one much higher, because he, rising from our plane like the crest of a wave, into the third, unimaginable dimension, will curve toward us to see us, describe us, create us, syllable by syllable and turn by turn, the way we hang from the pearl statue of his body. We will see him only in sections, because he is perpendicular to our world, bowed deeply above it. We will see the succession of his bodies: at a few months, a year, three years, five years three months, five years three months one hour, five years three months one hour and four seconds … how he slices himself amazingly thin, with the mechanical microtome, into microscopic slides suspended in Amann’s lactophenol, then dyed green from iodine and fuchsine (since they are transparent sparks and would be completely lost in the transparency of our illusion), but we will lose all that is not coplanar with the disk of our lives, the way characters in a movie will never see the thick beam that projects them, or the hundreds of eyes that watch them in the dark theater. We will see him grow among us, but he will not be among us. We will interfere in his life, with discretion, in succession, and in helping him become what he is, we will leave nothing, but nothing to chance. The smallest incident: a worm writhing at the end of an invisible thread, an unforeseen snowflake caught on his chin, an inflection in the voice of any one of us — will modify a letter, line, or paragraph in the book he will write, and which is the only world we have. An inopportune sneeze, and one of us disappears. A fluttering eyelash, and he’ll never write a thing. Surveyed by us like ten thousand apostles, served by us like a cohort of angels, the boy will grow in wisdom and vigor, but how much he grows in glory, we will never be able to know. Because he will be at the same time among us and in a greater world, with an extra dimension of glory in the world for which we are only a flat, dull projection. And this world of glory is, in turn, nothing but the flat, dull purgation of a world of hyper-glory, with another god that writes in the golden howl of inspiration, written in turn by another … And the tunnel of gold, ever longer and heavier, stretches endlessly, like a string of pearls in which the string is only an infinite point of light, and the pearls are enclosed within each other, pierced through their blinding center. And it is bizarre that each of the pearly spheres is founded on the others, born of the one below it, just so that it once, sometime, can give birth to one more, in an endless flickering of the possible and the unreal and the real, in a dance of transparencies and opacities, around the thread reduced to that most ecstatic star …’