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ONE_ two_ three_ four The clock in the kitchen struck

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ONE_ two_ three_ four    The clock in the kitchen struck Powered By Docstoc
					                      Chapter Fifteen                                                 Chapter Four                                            Chapter Four

                                                                        THE BELL AND THE HAMMER                                 THE BELL AND THE HAMMER
O      NE, two, three, four . . . The clock in the kitchen struck
       twelve. How irrelevantly, seeing that time had ceased to
exist! The absurd, importunate bell had sounded at the heart of
                                                                     There was no doubt about the Magic this time.
                                                                     Down and down they rushed, first through
                                                                                                                             �ere was no doubt about the Magic this time.
                                                                                                                             Down and down they rushed, �rst through
                                                                     darkness and then through a mass of vague and           darkness and then through a mass of vague and
a timelessly present Event, of a Now that changed incessantly        whirling shapes which might have been almost            whirling shapes which might have been almost
in a dimension, not of seconds and minutes, but of a beauty, of      anything. It grew lighter. Then suddenly they           anything. It grew lighter. �en suddenly they
significance, of intensity, of deepening mystery.                    felt that they were standing on something solid.        felt that they were standing on something solid.
   “Luminous bliss.” From the shallows of his mind the words         A moment later everything came into focus and           A moment later everything came into focus and
rose like bubbles, came to the surface and vanished into the         they were able to look about them.                      they were able to look about them.
infinite spaces of living light that now pulsed and breathed            “What a queer place!” said Digory.                      “What a queer place!” said Digory.
                                                                        “I don’t like it,” said Polly, with something like      “I don’t like it,” said Polly, with something like
behind his closed eyelids. “Luminous bliss.” That was as
                                                                     a shudder.                                              a shudder.
near as one could come to it. But it—this timeless and yet              What they noticed first was the light. It wasn’t        What they noticed �rst was the light. It wasn’t
ever changing Event—was something that words could only              like sunlight, and it wasn’t like electric light, or    like sunlight, and it wasn’t like electric light, or
caricature and diminish, never convey. It was not only bliss,        lamps, or candles, or any other light they had          lamps, or candles, or any other light they had
it was also understanding. Understanding of everything, but          ever seen. It was a dull, rather red light, not at      ever seen. It was a dull, rather red light, not at
without knowledge of anything. Knowledge involved a knower           all cheerful. It was steady and did not flicker.        all cheerful. It was steady and did not �icker.
and all the infinite diversity of known and knowable things.         They were standing on a flat paved surface and          �ey were standing on a �at paved surface and
                                                                     buildings rose all around them. There was not           buildings rose all around them. �ere was not
But here, behind his closed lids there was neither spectacle
                                                                     roof overhead; they were in a sort of courtyard.        roof overhead; they were in a sort of courtyard.
nor spectator. There was only this experienced fact of being         The sky was extraordinarily dark — a blue that          �e sky was extraordinarily dark — a blue that
blissfully one with oneness.                                         was almost black. When you had seen that sky            was almost black. When you had seen that sky
   In a succession of revelations, the light grew brighter, the      you wondered that there should be any light at          you wondered that there should be any light at
understanding deepened, the bliss became more impossibly,            all.                                                    all.
more unbearably intense. “Dear God!” he said to himself. “Oh,           “It’s very funny weather here,” said Digory.            “It’s very funny weather here,” said Digory.
my dear God.” Then, out of another world, he heard the sound         “I wonder if we’ve arrived just in time for a           “I wonder if we’ve arrived just in time for a
                                                                     thunderstorm; or an eclipse.”                           thunderstorm; or an eclipse.”
of Susila’s voice.
                                                                        “I don’t like it,” said Polly.                          “I don’t like it,” said Polly.
   “Do you feel like telling me what’s happening?”                      Both of them, without quite knowing why,                Both of them, without quite knowing why, were
   It was a long time before Will answered her. Speaking was         were talking in whispers. And though there was          talking in whispers. And though there was no
difficult. Not because there was any physical impediment. It         no reason why they should still go on holding           reason why they should still go on holding hands
was just that speech seemed so fatuous, so totally pointless.        hands after their jump, they didn’t let go.             after their jump, they didn’t let go.
“Light,” he whispered at last.
   “And you’re there, looking at the light?”
   “Not looking at it,” he answered after a long reflective pause.
“Being it. Being it,” he repeated emphatically.
   Its presence was his absence. William Asquith Farnaby—
ultimately and essentially there was no such person.
Ultimately and essentially there was only a luminous bliss,
only a knowledgeless understanding, only union with unity
in a limitless, undifferentiated awareness. This, self-evidently,
was the mind’s natural state.
              If you forget me                                                                                                           But
                  I want you to know                                                                                                if each day,
                        one thing.                                                                                                     each hour,
                                                                                                                      you feel that you are destined for me
                                                                                                                                  with implacable sweetness,
          You know how this is:                                           if I look                                       if each day a flower
              if I look                                                                                               climbs up to your lips to seek me,
                                                                at the crystal moon, at the red branch
      at the crystal moon, at the red branch                                                                                   ah my love, ah my own,
  of the slow autumn at my window,                            of the slow autumn at my window,
                                                                                                                                 in me all that fire is repeated,
                       if I touch                                                if I touch                           in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
                    near the fire                                            near the fire                           my love feeds on your love, beloved,
               the impalpable ash                                        the impalpable ash                         and as long as you live it will be in your arms
       or the wrinkled body of the log,                           or the wrinkled body of the log,                                   without leaving mine.
         everything carries me to you,
                                                                   everything carries me to you,
                as if everything that exists,
                     aromas, light, metals,
                                                                         as if everything that exists,                     if I look
                       were little boats                                    aromas, light, metals,              at the crystal moon, at the red branch
                      that sail                                                 were little boats              of the slow autumn at my window,
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.                                   that sail                                         if I touch
                   Well, now,
                                                            toward those isles of yours that wait for me.                     near the fire
                if little by little you stop loving me                                                                    the impalpable ash
         I shall stop loving you little by little.                       if I look                                 or the wrinkled body of the log,
                                                             at the crystal moon, at the red branch                 everything carries me to you,
                  If suddenly
                                                            of the slow autumn at my window,                             as if everything that exists,
                 you forget me
                    do not look for me,                                         if I touch                                   aromas, light, metals,
   for I shall already have forgotten you.                                  near the fire                                       were little boats
                                                                       the impalpable ash                                        that sail
        If you think it long and mad,                           or the wrinkled body of the log,             toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
             the wind of banners
                                                                 everything carries me to you,
         that passes through my life,
             and you decide                                           as if everything that exists,                         if I look
      to leave me at the shore                                            aromas, light, metals,                at the crystal moon, at the red branch
  of the heart where I have roots,                                            were little boats
              remember
                                                                                                               of the slow autumn at my window,
                                                                               that sail                                          if I touch
                that on that day,
                                                          toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
                     at that hour,                                                                                            near the fire
                 I shall lift my arms                                                                                     the impalpable ash
            and my roots will set off                                    if I look
            to seek another land.                                                                                  or the wrinkled body of the log,
                                                             at the crystal moon, at the red branch                 everything carries me to you,
                     But                                    of the slow autumn at my window,                             as if everything that exists,
                if each day,                                                    if I touch                                   aromas, light, metals,
                   each hour,                                              near the fire
  you feel that you are destined for me                                                                                         were little boats
              with implacable sweetness,                               the impalpable ash                                         that sail
      if each day a flower                                      or the wrinkled body of the log,            toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
  climbs up to your lips to seek me,                             everything carries me to you,
           ah my love, ah my own,
             in me all that fire is repeated,
                                                                      as if everything that exists,
  in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,                            aromas, light, metals,
 my love feeds on your love, beloved,                                        were little boats
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
                  without leaving mine.
                                                                               that sail
                                                         toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
      Pablo Neruda 1904 – 1973

				
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