The day hangs suspended—a dull golden weave on which an impressionist master’s brush has sketched, placed at random, the familiar furnishings of a New York City apartment: the whiskey bottle, jar of instant coffee, cans of soup and spices on the shelf, a torn bag of sugar, ashtrays, magazines and a bowl of fruit on the floor. A tropical garden painted on the air. At this moment the mind, which has sunk deep into the trunk, a migrating organ, passing through the clapping valves of the heart and the belly toward the bowels; the mind, especially lucid, observes with surprised amusement an old riddle unfolding into a simple demonstration. Irrespective of will or will-lessness, the arm plunges into space, the hand reaches out to seize a pear and as gratuitously arrested, lies still on the fruit. Movement and rest, irrespective of will or will-lessness. The mind, sunk comfortably in the liver, finds a wonderful significance in this. It would like to make a note of it; but does not, in fact, any more than a fat man submerged in a hot bath will make a note of his revelation. He cannot. The paper would get wet. Besides, to lift his arm out of the water is inconceivable: it would damage his insight.