And then I thought of the nature of what I’ve been calling epiphany again: any image, any moment, no matter how tedious, how boring, must be sublime if one could perceive it in the light of eternity (or call it, if you will, the light of one’s own mortality): If you could somehow bring Time to a stop, any given moment of it must be sublime.
That’s the light in which I saw the tennis instructor doing whatever it was I had seen him doing: I caught him in the midst of performing an action which one would might find depicted in the brochure for a child’s tennis camp, or in an ad for vacation retreat for seniors. (What was the relationship, I wondered, between the Eternal, or Mortal, and the sort of commercial photography to be found in the glossy brochure of a half-ass vacation retreat?)
This world was full of brochure-like moments… Yes: reality was essentially a boring brochure, put out by the AARP or DMV or some such, but which, if you could rip a page out of it and hold it forever, which is what Poetry or Literature or Religion attempted to simulate, it would be sublime; it would be seen how sublime that tedious moment in fact was.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 