My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
The Image of Galaxies and Ourselves
The image of galaxies long since destroyed is now reaching us. They no longer are in themselves, but are now becoming real for us. When they were actual, we were not yet. So relative is their reality -- real to us, but not to them, and it may be our fate, too: present as an image of what was. Even if not actual the image is real, even if its reality belongs now only to the observer.
Labels:
perception,
universe
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