THE POWER OF WORDS

27/02/2012 13:50:15 - 1850 - by Edgar Allan Poe

OINOS. Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with

immortality!

AGATHOS. You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be

demanded. Not even here is knowledge thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask

of the angels freely, that it may be given!

OINOS. But in this existence, I dreamed that I should be at once

cognizant of all things, and thus at once be happy in being cognizant of

all.

AGATHOS. Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of

knowledge! In for ever knowing, we are for ever blessed; but to know all

were the curse of a fiend.

OINOS. But does not The Most High know all?

AGATHOS. That (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the one thing

unknown even to Him.

OINOS. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not at last all

things be known?

AGATHOS. Look down into the abysmal distances!–attempt to force the gaze

down the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through

them thus–and thus–and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all

points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?–the walls

of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has appeared to

blend into unity?

OINOS. I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.

AGATHOS. There are no dreams in Aidenn–but it is here whispered that, of

this infinity of matter, the sole purpose is to afford infinite springs,

at which the soul may allay the thirst to know, which is for ever

unquenchable within it–since to quench it, would be to extinguish the

soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear. Come!

we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and swoop

outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion, where, for

pansies and violets, and heart's- ease, are the beds of the triplicate

and triple–tinted suns.

OINOS. And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!–speak to me in the

earth's familiar tones. I understand not what you hinted to me, just now,

of the modes or of the method of what, during mortality, we were

accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is not

God?

AGATHOS. I mean to say that the Deity does not create.

OINOS. Explain.

AGATHOS. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which

are now, throughout the universe, so perpetually springing into being,

can only be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or

immediate results of the Divine creative power.

OINOS. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in

the extreme.

AGATHOS. Among angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.

OINOS. I can comprehend you thus far–that certain operations of what we

term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give

rise to that which has all the appearance of creation. Shortly before the

final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very

successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to

denominate the creation of animalculae.

AGATHOS. The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the

secondary creation–and of the only species of creation which has ever

been, since the first word spoke into existence the first law.

OINOS. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst

hourly forth into the heavens–are not these stars, Agathos, the immediate

handiwork of the King?

AGATHOS. Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the

conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can perish,

so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for example,

when we were dwellers on the earth, and, in so doing, gave vibration to

the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was indefinitely

extended, till it gave impulse to every particle of the earth's air,

which thenceforward, and for ever, was actuated by the one movement of

the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our globe well knew. They made

the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses,

the subject of exact calculation–so that it became easy to determine in

what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle the orb,

and impress (for ever) every atom of the atmosphere circumambient.

Retrograding, they found no difficulty, from a given effect, under given

conditions, in determining the value of the original impulse. Now the

mathematicians who saw that the results of any given impulse were

absolutely endless–and who saw that a portion of these results were

accurately traceable through the agency of algebraic analysis–who saw,

too, the facility of the retrogradation–these men saw, at the same time,

that this species of analysis itself, had within itself a capacity for

indefinite progress–that there were no bounds conceivable to its

advancement and applicability, except within the intellect of him who

advanced or applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.

OINOS. And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?

AGATHOS. Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond.

It was deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite

understanding–one to whom the perfection of the algebraic analysis lay

unfolded–there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse given the

air–and the ether through the air–to the remotest consequences at any

even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed demonstrable that

every such impulse given the air, must, in the end, impress every

individual thing that exists within the universe;–and the being of

infinite understanding–the being whom we have imagined–might trace the

remote undulations of the impulse- trace them upward and onward in their

influences upon all particles of an matter–upward and onward for ever in

their modifications of old forms–or, in other words, in their creation of

new–until he found them reflected–unimpressive at last–back from the

throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a thing do this, but at

any epoch, should a given result be afforded him–should one of these

numberless comets, for example, be presented to his inspection–he could

have no difficulty in determining, by the analytic retrogradation, to

what original impulse it was due. This power of retrogradation in its

absolute fulness and perfection–this faculty of referring at all epochs,

all effects to all causes–is of course the prerogative of the Deity

alone–but in every variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection,

is the power itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic

intelligences.

OINOS. But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.

AGATHOS. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth; but the

general proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether- which,

since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium

of creation.

OINOS. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?

AGATHOS. It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source

of all motion is thought–and the source of all thought is-

OINOS. God.

AGATHOS. I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child of the fair Earth

which lately perished–of impulses upon the atmosphere of the Earth.

OINOS. You did.

AGATHOS. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some

thought of the physical power of words? Is not every word an impulse on

the air?

OINOS. But why, Agathos, do you weep–and why, oh why do your wings droop

as we hover above this fair star–which is the greenest and yet most

terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant flowers

look like a fairy dream–but its fierce volcanoes like the passions of a

turbulent heart.

AGATHOS. They are!–they are! This wild star–it is now three centuries

since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my

beloved–I spoke it–with a few passionate sentences- into birth. Its

brilliant flowers are the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its

raging volcanoes are the passions of the most turbulent and unhallowed of

hearts.

THE END