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[alice wellintown]

Thayer suspected, and he was correct, that Henry Adams was making fun
of historians, of the idea that one can measure, number, quantify the
entropic, though decadence accelerated as the johnny come late to the
Earth abandoned his more noble creations, including the spiritual and
the imaginative, most evident in the moral force that was once
invested in his greatest projects and functioned invisibly as gravity,
grounding his huministic better angels in a host that looked homeward
not to Rilkean Cryings of Lots cast against the day, but to an Orphic
song that gave meaning to the works of hands and days. The Crying of
history cannot be valued in lots, in paved roads, but is under and in
the stones, and in the wind, in the haunted winds and in the dreams we
dream of others who dream of us. The math, could be any law, or rule,
of thermodynamics, or history, of space, of geology, it matters not.
the scatterbrained, organic happinings, magically force the universe,
not in the dirrection, like an arrow, at death, at any telos, but into
a song that can be heard only when we hear the light that is darkness.