Black Books

Will you finally listen? Am I less than Philemon? Is white better than black? Philemon called me his shadow.

I call him my shadow. I am solid, he is thinner than air. His truth is a shadow, a breath, fleeting and already blown away.

I am a rock of ages.

Do you think that I am less than him, since I am damned to chase after my shadow?

Is he not condemned to always precede me? He’s only my herald, my forerunner.

What then comes, is me. I endure, he comes and goes.

When he ascends where I have yet to climb, I am still with you long after he has gone. I am your truth, which endures, he is a fleeting light, a ~ stray ray of sunlight. Hence listen to me?

You spoke with Philemon about immortality?

Did you see how he spread green and sky blue veils? No, since your eyes were already blindfolded.

Do you think you now know something about immortality?

A leaf that falls from the tree-an autumn day-yet the tree remains-how long?-A winter day-the axe chops its roots-and now-where is the tree?-It makes coffin boards-it cooks soup-it is a chair leg-it is tabloid paper-it is ash-decay-dust-the tiniest root of the smallest plant inhales one of its atoms yes, where is the tree?

Who is the tree? Where does Philemon’s divine work of delusion remain?

He taught you how small you are. But do you know how large you are?

But how you ought to know it! You have eyes only for how immense and vast the world is, ears to hear how soon the sound of speech trails off in the distance, muscles to teach you how weak you are.

The light of the day blinds you, and nevertheless you always look toward the light.

But you don’t see me, since your eyes are made for light.

Philemon truly planted these eyes in you.

But you don’t know that you have eyes behind your eyes, ears behind your ears, dark eyes, shadow ears that I planted in you.

These see and hear into what is infallible, unmistakable, into that which lies behind all light, into the eternal night of truth. You see with these eyes into what is smaller where you are large, you hear with these ears the faintest voices that reach you from the starry distance .

.,. These eyes are vast like a starry heaven and these ears hear further than the limits of the zodiac. Do you know how immense you are?

Philemon would like to make you believe that your life returns, like leaves on the tree.

But didn’t the life of the tree go into the leaf? Didn’t the leaf fall?.,.

Does it not lie rotting in the damp ground? But what is a leaf?

It covers a heavenly vault with a million inhabited worlds.

Does the vastness have a limit? Has the smallness a limit? Is there nothing in all eternity vaster than the vast and smaller than the small?

The earth is a seed in the heavens.

A speck of dust on the earth is as vast as the earth in the heavens.

And the speck of dust is as vast as a heaven, as many heavens, numberless worlds, since where is infinity limited by a border?

If Philemon goes to the great Gods and you sit small and solitary in the shadow of the earth-where does your I go, the living I, which you yourself are and without which you cannot be?

Why do you feel the eternity of your I? Indeed, why do you want the eternity of your I?

And why is it a sick relinquishment not to want eternity?

The light of the day blinds you, it indicates the opposite to you.

You see with eyes of the day, listen with ears of the day, wish with a heart of the day and therefore want to go up with Philemon to the great Gods and but you are not the sum of the great Gods you can see the deceptive appearance of this hope exposed daily.

You lie to your own face, if you believe such.

See with my eyes, listen with my ears!

A laughable and serious mystery! Why am I damned to trail after Philemon?

He is the worthy and beautiful radiance, only my shadow-he speaks great works, he is a mountebank of beauty and truth-but my truth makes one laugh-the Gods laugh at the mere mortals-you did not laugh when the great God Man was spoken of- you shuddered out of respect-your Christ even called himself his Son and you found it so beautiful and worthy-but that your immortal I-son will be a dwarf, who wouldn’t laugh?

The great God Man laughed at his laughable immortality.

But the dwarf thought that the great God takes satisfaction in him.

The tree becomes a leaf. The leaf is the I, as well as the whole tree.

The I of the tree becomes manifold in the leaves and each leaf is the whole tree-I.

Yes, it is smaller than the whole tree and yet not less than the I. Is not every cell of the tree-! an I, and again every grain in the cell an I of the cell, the I of the leaf, the I of the tree?

How many worlds does a tiny grain contain? What is the smallest unit of life?

How great must something be, that it can still live?

And how small should something be, that it can no longer live?

As the Son of Man was shrouded in the great God Man before his appearance and was one with him, so in you is the Son-I enclosed in the smaller world, your I not less than you yourself.

It is infinitely much smaller than you-but what is small?

What is great? And because he is enclosed shrouded in you till the final hour, so he is called the shrouded one or he who is enclosed in the egg.

Yes, he flies away like a bird at the hour of death. ~Ka, The Black Books, Vol. VII, Page 169-170