William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— A simple man who is up against it, a man who knows what he's up against. You have to go to the country to find him. Out to the country or out to sea.

— In his dominions there are no poor, no thieves or robbers, and no dissension. Where he has come from there are no vices, no misers or flatterers, and no lies.

Snow whirled against the glass. The blue woman was held contorted for full half a minute. The Town Carpenter licked his lips, and gazed up at the movement on the cracked lips of the twelve-point buck who remained, unperturbed by the fly, looking down through glazed convexities of dust.

Streaks of sound pierced the woodwork, from the cavetto molding to stab through the stained ribs strained tongue-in-groove wainscoting the hallway, as though there were movement there.

— So, he burnt the throne of the sun with fire, did he? The throne of the sun!. . nine. . six, Reverend Gwyon muttered, standing over his littered desk, flinging over the pages of Job with the flat of three fingers. — Which shaketh the earth out of her place, and the pillars thereof tremble. Tremble, do they? Which com-mandeth the sun, and it riseth not; and sealed up the stars. Riseth not, does it? Which maketh Arcturus, Orion, Pleiades, and the chambers of the south, does he! Gwyon looked up impatiently, no more than to take his eyes from the book laid open on top of the Letters of the Emperor Flavius Claudius Julianus. His clear eyes struck the door, and held there a moment, waiting. Then he returned to the pages before him. — Nineteen. . four… In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which is a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it: and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof. . that's better, now, he muttered, turning pages. — Seven. . eleven. . and by it there is profit to them that see the sun. . uhm. . eleven. . seven. . Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun. . yes. . hmmmm. . Truly the light is sweet, he repeated, raising his eyes now straight before him to the window, and the encumbered sky.

That impregnable meter of silence enveloped him directly he stopped speaking, and stood there erect and alone. There was nothing in his face to betray, or even suggest doubt; but his hands were not, as they might at first appear, resting their own weight and no more on the pages before him. As he stood unmoving so, the faint carnation under his nails became evenly fainter, draining away from the rims until they were, all together, blanched with the strain they sustained, streaked with the life that sustained them.

— One more day's dying, Gwyon murmured looking out at the sky. Would there be time? His fingertips regained their color. Even as they did, the lower part of his face drained of its fullness, as though the two were connected, or as though it were not two but one process, a continuous seepage down, and he caught his lower lip with concern. Would there be time? to make full proof of his ministry; and he searched the sky as though for answer. — One more day's dying, he repeated, searching the sky for the sun.

The parsonage was near a century old, and it was not strange that the wind should set it creaking so. Inside, however, and well in, beyond other evidences, the wind provided an arbitrary explanation and no more: as well say that the sharp angles of wall and wainscot, molding and baseboard complained so at the relentless obtrusion of one another's extremities where they were forced to meet; or that they creaked with effort, supporting the cross, and with vigilance for its prey, suspended there in the near darkness before the small mirrors which looked shined with work as though, leaving Sor Patrocinio stigmatized, they had begun again here. How John Huss would have vilipended the thing! as Aunt May had ruefully noted; but she had not prevailed against it, and inclined to avoid it. Gwyon, passing it many times a day, shocked it and banged the study door in its face before a fragment of his motion could be isolated and fixed. (True, more than once he had surprised Janet there; and often, when he thought of it, attempted stealthy glances at her ungloved palms, but in vain.) The creaking continued; still nothing moved in the dark hallway until the thin lips cracked apart, but still silent, — What was it? What am I supposed to ask? Am I the. . Homoousian or Homoiousian? Am I the man that. . What holds me back?. . for whom. . for whom. . What was it?. .

Reverend Gwyon gripped the lapels of his coat and peered at the inside of the door. — Damnation, he muttered, — what holds me back? And he commenced to rummage among the books and papers before him. The Old Testament and the Letters of Julian the Apostate were thrust aside, Origen's Contra Celsum, one after another he pushed the books back until they mounted in an unsteady pile about the gold bull figure. — Volume eighteen, he muttered, — PLANTS to RAYM. . where… He paused, holding Ter-tullian's De Corona. Then he started through the discarded pile, muttering — Cathemerinon, but when he found it, and stood with it open, he spoke without looking at the page.

— Kindly Guide, Reverend Gwyon said to the sky without, — creator of the radiant light, who controllest the seasons in their fixed courses, if thy sun is hidden, grim chaos encompasses us, restore thy light O Christ to thy faithful followers. . Gwyon paused, as though he had heard a sound. The sky before him darkened as he watched it; and as he watched, the book in his hand closed slowly, and the nails of his hand went white against the covers.

The knocks on the door were faint. Reverend Gwyon planted Prudentius firmly on the desk and turned; but when he reached the door he paused with a hand to the knob and stood that way, listening, the more intently, for something he had not heard.

On either side of the door they stood, a hand raised and a hand held forth, their extended arms abscissa and ordinate for the point of ordination where their eyes met on the inordinate curve of doubt.

There was a crash in the hallway. Reverend Gwyon threw the study door open. The cruz-con-espejos lay on the floor. Streaks of light pierced him from the sharp silvered fragments around it, and held him, blinded for a moment.

Rounding the corner from the kitchen, Janet collided with the figure coming in the other direction. She drew back aghast. — Has it begun? she managed to say, clutching one gloved hand in the other.

— Begun? Good God, I… I didn't. .

— Is it time? she asked eagerly. -Time to tell them. . you have come back?

— Yes, tell them, he said, getting round her with the speed of a shadow when a light is moved, — I came back to preach, but I…

— They doubted, she said drawing her upper lip down with the sudden modesty of veiling, — but I…

— Janet! Reverend Gwyon emerged, and pushed the cross aside with his foot. — Lunch, he said, advancing.

— Father. . father, I…

Janet was gone. Reverend Gwyon, coming forth from the dark hallway, seemed to become larger as he approached the light, and the figure dancing backwards, still like a shadow retreating, went on, — Something I have to ask you, I… what was it?… you

In this fashion they reached the dining room. With expletive — Thank God, once or twice, the voice had risen and went on more rapidly, drawing Gwyon on with the expression on his face of a man tormented by a question to which everyone else in the room knows the answer.

— You look like Valerian, very much, yes very much like the Emperor Valerian. . the words came on, every syllable expletive and the more rapid, the sound sustaining itself in nimble surprise, alert for the right words, the right question when it came out to be rescued and repeated.