It occurred to him that he had a deep and abiding love of books, however faded by years of shortening attention spans and the instant gratification of audiobooks.
He glanced at the stack of four slim books that he had taken from the table, when he was emboldened by the sign telling him to take what he wished. Then he turned to the text of a poem, the final stanza of which glared at him:
"Be grateful for whatever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."
God, the Divine, that intangible sense of goodwill that permeated existence, that WAS existence, from time immemorial, was present. There was no incarnation, no Buddha, no Qur'anic representation of the ideal in heaven, but there WERE these books, these four, sent from the beyond.
But, he realized, there was no guarantee that they were really sent. In fact, it may very well have been the case that he merely imagined they were sent. He might be insane. His conviction that purpose, narrative, and divine upbuilding and instruction might be communicated by a set of books left on a table might have been sheer lunacy. It might be a truth that existed in his own brain and not a truth extant in the external world.
But it was the truth in his own brain, and he determined within himself to be grateful for whatever came, because each of these messages was sent as a guide from beyond. The distinction between human and divine authorship blurred. Perhaps they were one and the same, and perhaps that was right and good and just.
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