——Some of these extended articulations–whatever went into the origin–become so successful in their bid for attention, so in gear, that it occurs to the writer he has been seduced by the expectations of his public–or what he thinks are his own readers. Telepathically, on their instruction, he is leaving the first plane of reference, and the realm of pure thought, right whilst in the act of constructing a small paragraph. Some writers are lonely; but not this one. Whilst in the act of expression he has to fend off commentary coming at him out of the hills. To which he eventually succumbs, for all he knows–as he now confesses. I am engulfed the act of my own generosity, he says; I want to be all things to all people, like St. Paul. So interested is he, this author, in being heard and even applauded, in being quotable, so sure is he that it all comes back to the truth, somehow!, that he will detour from the main topic he thought he started with, and build you a tent, weave an invisible spell wherein you can live, and pray. Well, of course he will!  Everything is against staying on the point, all is changed, the ancient syntax is reminding him of old songs, or no, it is making up new songs–and mere phrases are transporting him.  The author in rags and the public speaker by demand, he goes pandering to the crowd at the first rumbling of approval. For they want to hear . . .  Obviously, he doesn’t consider himself alone in these important investigations, but he is vitally working for others, for whom he is not just making a mundane report. Nothing is simply for your edification. No, there is always a radical synthesis at work, and the continual death of assumption leaves us standing . . . in the air. I am not, he says to himself, and within earshot of all the others, those others whose ears are always cocked, whose eyes are always peeled, I am not doing all this only for your collective wisdom.  But it is an otherworldly ambition that fuels my rapid talking style, and the sense that there is an enemy, who will not identify himself and fight directly, but creates an arena and then leaves it, like a legislator, or maker of modern cities, or a glutinous magazine editor. Yeah! there is a shape shifting enemy alright, and I cannot find him in person, unless it is . . . well, I am listening for slamming doors.
——Next paragraph. It is not the difficulty of fitting Christianity into an otherwise plausible history, or interpreting Christianity, so as to reconcile it with an idea of the historical past, that has been delivered free of miracles. It’s that what is taken for nature, and the reality of life, is only done so by pressure of a set of assumptions, which if dropped would render it incomprehensible, chaotic–and the witness feeling out of his senses. Truth, the shape of Christianity would meanwhile stand there, like a pillar frozen . . . in the air, against a backdrop of the inexplicable forms, in a sea of unexplainable events, amidst a babbling and repetition of ideas.
——-I think it was William James who said: “The truth is what explains in one context both the present and the past, which are in our experience psychologically incompatible.”

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