“…a limit on infinity…” Stephane Mallarme
The recuperation, the recoup, the dice thrown, the paradisiacal, the tree and the life‟s He: Yes, that the logic of the impossible required that the thought of the impossible became the impossibility of thought, and he said the impossible was the only thing worth attempting, and nevertheless, in this therefore, this OR, this symbol or siglum, this turning point, this gold, was conversion, his and mine, in extremity, and that though I had seen did not yet believe, and inclined still toward the abyss, yet He saved me, and having said He would I did believe and came to be, conscience created, not by a smithy, not to be the conscience of my race, but to set out for a far country, that my race, a more meta- than marathon, to parry para- and carry on, toward Cecilia‟s day and further, past deaths and rebirths and arrivals yet to come, looking back I found a fascist regime where none knew, and that the rapture has already happened, it is impossible, that the smoke of six million Jews in the Holocaust was the rapture, with their graves in the air, todesfugue, and Celan was not wrong, but crushed between mighty opposites, though he no baser nature, but he was it, the man, as each of us is, and it is the whole man who is the baser nature, as Hamlet knew, and we but caught between, and some knowing and some unknowing, and some knowing but uncaring, or inclining deliberately toward the abyss, on the horns of the dilemma, choose not the lesser of two evils, as the Church has always already done in practice, despite her theory, but break out of the vices, for God shows a way, and that is up, the dial pointing up, the indicator the direction the north of the future as Celan said, the Joycean gnomon, and the remainder, let that be, but you go on up, and only half make it, maybe, on