The night firmament is abstract density of music, symphony without end, illumination without end, yet emptier, more sparsely lit, than the most succinct  constellations of genius.  Now seen merely, a depthless lining of hemisphere, its crazy stippling of stars, it is the passional movements of the mind charted in light and darkness.  The tense passional intelligence, when arithmetic abates, tunnels, skymole, surely and blindly (if we only thought so!) through the interstellar coalsacks of its firmament in genesis, it twists through the stars of its creation in a network of loci that shall never be co-ordinate.  The inviolable criterion of poetry and music, the non-principle of their punctuation is figured in the demented perforation of the night colander.  The ecstatic mind, the mind achieving creation, take ours for example, rises to the shaft-heads of its statement, its recondite relations of emergal, from a labour and a weariness of deep castings that brook no schema.  The mind suddenly entombed, then active in an anger and a rhapsody of energy in a scurrying and plunging towards exitus, such is the ultimate mode and factor of the creative integrity, its proton, incommunicable; but there, insistent, invisible rat, fidgeting behind the astral incoherence of the art surface.  That was the circular movement of the mind flowering up and up through darkness to an apex, dear to Dionysius the Aeropagite, beside which all other modes, all the polite obliquities, are the clockwork of rond-de-cuirdon.

                                                             -- (a young) Samuel Beckett
                                                                from Dream of Fair to Middling Women (1932)

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