Gut Symmetries Read Online Free

been put to bed, my mother got an hour too, and I was glad that she and not we had to share her hour with the dinner. Then my father went into his study and the house was dark.
     
    March 14 1879. Ulm. Germany. Sun in Pisces.
    A man slow of speech and gentle of person. What patterns do the numbers make breaking and beginning in the waters of his spirit? He floats in numbers. Now he rests on a nine, now he swims hard against a seven, numbers iridescent, open mouthed, feeding off him as he feeds on them.
    The numbers come when called. From the strange seas of the galaxy the numbers shoal to him. He knows the first words of Creation, and nearly sees, but not, the number that hides beneath. He hears the Word and tries to write the number but not all numbers are his.
    The untamedness of numbers is in their order, resolving upwards into a speculated beauty. Too close and language fails. He believes that Number and Word are one and he speaks in numbers and words, trying to remake in his own body the unity he apprehends.
    Einstein: the most famous scientist in the world. Everyone knows about E = MC 2 . Not everyone knows that:'If a body falls freely it will not feel its own weight.'
    The implications of this stretch beyond the theory of gravity they maintain.
     
    I know I am a fool, trying to make connections out of scraps but how else is there to proceed? The fragmentariness of life makes coherence suspect but to babble is a different kind of treachery. Perhaps it is a vanity. Am I vain enough to assume you will understand me? No. So I go on puzzling over new joints for words, hoping that this time, one piece will slide smooth against the next.
    Walk with me. Hand in hand through the nightmare of narrative, the neat sentences secret-nailed over meaning. Meaning mewed up like an anchorite, its vision in broken pieces behind the wall. And if we pull away the panelling, then what? Without the surface, what hope of contact, of conversation? How will I come to read the rawness inside?
    The story of my day, the story of my life, the story of how we met, of what happened before we met. And every story I begin to tell talks across a story I cannot tell. And if I were not telling this story to you but to someone else, would it be the same story?
     
    Walk with me, hand in hand through the neon and styrofoam. Walk the razor blades and the broken hearts. Walk the fortune and the fortune hunted. Walk the chop suey bars and the tract of stars.
    I know I am a fool, hoping dirt and glory are both a kind of luminous paint; the humiliations and exaltations that light us up. I see like a bug, everything too large, the pressure of infinity hammering at my head. But how else to live, vertical that I am, pressed down and pressing up simultaneously? I cannot assume you will understand me. It is just as likely that as I invent what I want to say, you will invent what you want to hear. Some story we must have. Stray words on crumpled paper. A weak signal into the outer space of each other.
    The probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. The lure of it is immense. We send starships. We fall in love.
     
    Walk with me. On the night that Jove and I first slept together I left him half covered in the vulnerability of a strange bed and walked from Central Park down to the Battery. I don't own my emotions unless I can think about them. I am not afraid of feeling but I am afraid of feeling unthinkingly. I don't want to drown. My head is my heart's lifebelt.
    I ignored the Stop-Go of the endless intersection traffic lights and took my chance across the quieted roads. Not night, not day, the city was suspended, its cries and shouts fainter how, its roar a rumble, like something far off. In the centre of it I felt like a creature on the edge. This is a city of edges, grand sharp, precipitous, unsafe. It is a city of corners not curves. Always a choice has to be made; which way now? A city of questions, mouthy and insolent, a built Sphinx to riddle at the