| p35 | With new life consciousness he can raise his eyes from babe to grandmother, to plaster walls and to a glass of water and see the same gift in each … not something for his pride or his thirst … not gratitude for, but gratitude to. He has deciphered the language of the unnameable and unsayable. It is there in his heart, a beauty and a pleasure and a song long denied. A bursting forth he can let time feed or squelch. It is not for divine edification that there is gratitude to. It is for the release of the language of the heart that lights the eyes with dignity, a properness returned to the improper. Truth returned to the imposter. In it is his glory revealed, and littleness vanquished. His eyes have seen the glory and only dullness of mind and heart will relieve him of it. |