The following is an exerpt from Mark Helprin's
Winter's Tale, and, though I do not claim to understand it, will now define the blog:
"'You see this painting?' Jackson Mead asked, gesturing toward The Ascension of St. Stephen.
'Yes. Of course,' Praeger answered.
'Do you believe that St. Stephen rose, actually?'
'No.'
'Then why did the artist paint it, and why do people venerate it and St. Stephen himself, if they did not and do not think that he rose? After all, if he didn't rise, then who the hell was he?'
'They do think he rose,' said Praeger, 'That's why they venerate the painting, and St. Stephen himself, however mistakenly.'
'No,' Jackson Mead insisted. 'They don't think anything of the kind. Oh, maybe some do, the ones who believe in spells and amulets. But the painter, and I, and most people who have come to venerate St. Stephen, do not think that he actually rose, as if he were attached by wires to stage machinery... They think, to the contrary, that he is rising, that he rises. The act is not complete. Even the painting feezes him in midair. It is, rather, in progress. To debate its actuality is useless, as it will not be confirmed--until we are able to see everything at once...
'What I am saying is that, until the canvas is set, actualities are no more than intentions, and intentions are as much as actualities. You see, it has all happened before, and it has not happened yet. And, whereas it is true that I have failed, and failed miserably, I have also succeeded--gloriously. The memory of that glory, in what you would call the future, is what I am intent upon retrieving, just as St. Stephen knew that he would rise, and was rising, though he was not. It has to do with time, you see. There is no such thing: only the suggestion of it, only a series of actions that we, because of our imperfection, must run together to comprehend. Look at the painting. You do see motion in it, don't you? And yet, no one moves. How is that?
'I will tell you. The painting is close to the true state of things. Just as, in a film, there are only stills arranged in an illusion of motion, so in life and time. It is all locked hard within a matrix, breathtakingly complicated, as if an infinite number of miniaturists have been employed forever in its startling depictions. But I assure you, there is no anarchy, everthing happened/happens at once, and it does not move...
'The spirit is far more intelligent than the intellect. But though the spirit often moves less cautiously, it is far slower than the intellect to grasp a point, which is why I need time, and why I will not tell you the exact nature of my intentions.'"
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