Try to imagine the awful meaning of this. You have often seen the
sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny
little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play.
Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from the
earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest
space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such an enormous mass of
countless particles of sand multiplied as often as there are leaves in the
forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish,
hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that at the
end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away
in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of
centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of
that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all.
Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even one instant of eternity
could be said to have ended. At the end of all those billions and trillions of
years eternity would have scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after
it had been all carried away, and if the bird came again and carried it all away
again grain by grain: and if it so rose and sank as many times as there are
stars in the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the
trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals, at the end of
all those innumerable risings and sinkings of that immeasurably vast mountain
not one single instant of eternity could be said to have ended; even then, at
the end of such a period, after that eon of time the mere thought of which makes
our very brain reel dizzily, eternity would have scarcely begun.
- James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (via here)
And yet we tend to soak ourselves so much in the delusion of our self-centered significance that we forget how life is rare, precious and significant.
- James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (via here)
And yet we tend to soak ourselves so much in the delusion of our self-centered significance that we forget how life is rare, precious and significant.
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