Money alone sets all the world in motion. They marched the victim up the steep stairway to the top of the pyramid, where four priests grabbed his limbs and spread him out on his back on a large stone altar. One of the fearsome and blood-spattered priests raised an obsidian knife above his head and then plunged it into the heaving chest of the victim held down on the altar before him.
That was when I saw the Pendulum. The sphere, hanging from a long wire set into the ceiling of the choir, swayed back and forth with isochronal majesty. I knew—but anyone could have sensed it in the magic of that serene breathing—that the period was governed by the square root of the length of the wire and by IT, that number which, however irrational to sublunar minds, through a higher rationality binds the circumference and diameter of all possible circles.
The time it took the sphere to swing from end to end was determined by an arcane conspiracy between the most timeless of measures: I also knew that a magnetic device centered in the floor beneath issued its command to a cylinder hidden in the heart of the sphere, thus assuring continual motion.
This device, far from interfering with the law of the Pendulum, in fact permitted its manifestation, for in a vacuum any object hanging from a weightless and unstretchable wire free of air resistance and friction will oscillate for eternity. The copper sphere gave off pale, shifting glints as it was struck by the last rays of the sun that came through the great stained-glass windows.
Were its tip to graze, as it had in the past, a layer of damp sand spread on the floor of the choir, each swing would make a light furrow, and the furrows, changing direction imperceptibly, would widen to form a breach, a groove with radial symmetry—like the outline of a mandala or pentaculum, a star, a mystic rose.
No, more a tale recorded on an expanse of desert, in tracks left by countless caravans of nomads, a story of slow, millennial migrations, like those of the people of Atlantis when they left the continent of Mu and roamed, stubbornly, compactly, from Tasmania to Greenland, from Capricorn to Cancer, from Prince Edward Island to the Svalbards.
The tip retraced, narrated anew in compressed time what they had done between one ice age and another, and perhaps were doing still, those couriers of die Masters. Perhaps the tip grazed Agarttha, the center of the world, as it journeyed from Samoa to Novaya Zemlya.
And I sensed that a single pattern united Avalon, beyond the north wind, to the southern desert where lies the enigma of Ayers Rock. At that moment of four in the afternoon of June 23, the Pendulum was slowing at one end of its swing, then falling back lazily toward the center, regaining speed along the way, slashing confidently through the hidden parallelogram of forces that were its destiny.
Perhaps the Knights had tried it there, too. Perhaps the solution, the final meaning, would have been no different. Perhaps the abbey church of Saint-Martin-des-Champs was the true Temple. I knew the earth was rotating, and I with it, and Saint-Martin-des-Champs and all Paris with me, and that together we were rotating beneath the Pendulum, whose own plane never changed direction, because up there, along the infinite extrapolation of its wire beyond the choir ceiling, up toward the most distant galaxies, lay the Only Fixed Point in the universe, eternally unmoving.
So it was hot so much the earth to which I addressed my gaze but the heavens, where the mystery of absolute immobility was celebrated. The Pendulum told me that, as everything moved— earth, solar system, nebulae and black holes, all the children of the great cosmic expansion—one single point stood still: And I was now taking part in that supreme experience.
I, too, moved with the all, but I could see the One, the Rock, the Guarantee, the luminous mist that is not body, that has no shape, weight, quantity, or quality, that does not see or hear, that cannot be sensed, that is in no place, in no time, and is not soul, intelligence, imagination, opinion, number, order, or measure.
Neither darkness nor light, neither error nor truth. I was roused by a listless exchange between a boy who wore glasses and a girl who unfortunately did not. Just take my word for it.
A moment later the couple went off—he, trained on some textbook that had blunted his capacity for wonder, she, inert and insensitive to the thrill of the infinite, both oblivious of the awesomeness of their encounter—their first and last encounter—with the One, the Ein-Sof, the Ineffable.
How could you fail to kneel down before this altar of certitude? I watched with reverence and fear. In that instant I was convinced that Jacopo Belbo was right.
What he told me about the Pendulum I had attributed to esthetic raving, to the shapeless cancer taking gradual shape in his soul, transforming the game into reality without his realizing it. But if he was right about the Pendulum, perhaps all the rest was true as well: And in that case I had been right to come here, on the eve of the summer solstice.
Jacopo Belbo was not crazy; he had simply, through his game, hit upon the truth.
I tried then to shift my gaze. I followed the curve that rose from the capitals of the semicircle of columns and ran along the ribs of the vault toward the key, mirroring the mystery of the ogive, that supreme static hypocrisy which rests on an absence, making the columns believe that they are thrusting the great ribs upward and the ribs believe that they are holding the columns down, the vault being both all and nothing, at once cause and effect.
But I realized that to neglect the Pendulum that hung from the vault while admiring the vault itself was like becoming drunk at the stream instead of drinking at the source. The choir of Saint-Martin-des-Champs existed only so that, by virtue of the Law, the Pendulum could exist; and the Pendulum existed so that the choir could exist.
You cannot escape one infinite, I told myself, by fleeing to another; you cannot escape the revelation of the identical by taking refuge in the illusion of the multiple. Still unable to take my eyes from the key of the vault, I retreated, step by step, for I had learned the path by heart in the few minutes I had been there.
Great metal tortoises filed past me on either side, imposing enough to signal their presence at the corner of my eyes. I fell back along the nave toward the front entrance, and again those menacing prehistoric birds of wire and rotting canvas loomed over me, evil dragonflies that some secret power had hung from the ceiling of the nave.
I saw them as sapiential metaphors, far more meaningful than their didactic pretext. A swarm of Jurassic insects and reptiles, allegory of the long terrestrial migrations the Pendulum was tracing, aimed at me like angry archons with their long archeopterix-beaks; the planes of Brdguet, Bleriot, Esnault, and the helicopter of Du-faux.
You enter and are stunned by a conspiracy in which the sublime universe of heavenly ogives and the chthonian world of gas guzzlers are juxtaposed. On the floor stretches a line of vehicles: Others are only skeletons or chassis, rods and cranks that threaten indescribable tortures.tion, of recovery of the traumas that law cannot consider, of recollection of the repressed and failed images, figures, texts, and thoughts prohibited by the prose of doctrine, by the language of judgment, by the protocols of a wisdom without desire.
Lindsay thinks a warped "angel" of not mercy is killing people just prior to their leaving the hospital. Though her plate is filled with an investigation into the "Car Girls" serial murders, she vows with the help of her Women's Murder Club members to take down the hospital killer.
William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April – 23 April ) was an English poet, playwright and actor, widely regarded as both the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist.
He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon". His extant works, including collaborations, consist of approximately 39 plays, sonnets, two long narrative poems. The symbolism of the stone angel is first apparent in Hagar's pride in the Currie family name.
The stone angel is symbolic of Hagar's vanity in her surname. Hagar values the angel because it is an emblem of the Currie family. Most Common Text: Click on the icon to return to regardbouddhiste.com and to enjoy and benefit.
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Gates of Vienna News Feed 1/17/ Tonight’s news feed is unusually fat, due to the inclusion of last night’s items, which were never used because of the Blogger outage. Yesterday a group of Al Qaeda terrorists assaulted a natural gas plant in Algeria and killed two foreigners while taking 41 other hostage.