Empty Pages
The Christian God
About My Mother
It is very strange that a kind of empty white page should be left in my hand. How I walked there， how I waited （I remember I had to wait）， I know nothing about it； I remember not a sound， not a face， not a gesture， as if all communicating wires between me and the world were cut.
When I came to， I found myself standing before Him. I was afraid to raise my eyes； I saw only the enormous cast-iron hands upon His knees. Those hands weighed upon Him， bending His knees with their weight. He was slowly moving His fingers. His face was somewhere above， as if in fog. And， only because His voice came to my ears from such a height， it did not roar like thunder， it did not deafen me but appeared to be an ordinary， human voice.
"Then you， too， you， the Builder of the Integral！ You， whose lot it was to become the greatest of all conquistadores！ You， whose name was to have been at the head of a glorious new chapter in the history of the United State！ You..."
Blood ran to my head， to my cheeks—and here again a white page； only the pulsation in my temples and the heavy voice from above； but I remember not a word. Only when He became silent， I came to and noticed how His hand moved heavily like a thousand pounds， and crawled slowly—His finger threatened me.
"Well？ Why are you silent？ Is it true， or not？ Executioner？ So！"
"So，" I repeated submissively. And then I heard clearly every one of His words.
"Well， then？ Do you think I am afraid of the Word？ Did you ever try to take off its shell and look into its inner meaning？ I shall tell you....Remember a blue hill， a crowd， a cross？ Some up on the hill， sprinkled with blood， are busy nailing a body to the cross； others below， sprinkled with tears， are gazing upward. Does it not occur to you that the part which those above must play is the more difficult， the more important part？ If it were not for them， how could that magnificent tragedy ever have been staged？ True， they were hissed by the dark crowd， but for that the author of the tragedy， God， should have remunerated them the more liberally， should He not？ And the most clement， Christian Cod himself， who burned all the infidels on a slow fire， is He not an executioner？ Was the number of those burned by the Christians less than the number of burned Christians？ Yet （you must understand this！）， yet this God was for centuries glorified as the God of love！ Absurd？ Oh， no. Just the contrary. It is instead a testament to the imperishable wisdom of man， written in blood. Even at the time when he still was wild and hairy， man knew that real， algebraic love for humanity must inevitably be inhuman， and that the inevitable mark of truth is cruelty—just as the inevitable mark of fire is its property of causing the sensation of burning. Could you show me a fire that would not hurt？ Well， now prove your point！ Proceed！ Argue！"
How could I argue？ How could I argue when those thoughts were once mine， though I was never able to dress them in such a splendid， tempered armor？ I remained silent.
