By Basil King
...Berkeley Noone, stricken with the incurable Hutchinson's sickness, has authorized the truth that he needs to die. part eagerly, part anxiously he waits for loss of life, purely to adventure no loss of life; as an alternative, come to a translation right into a greater, fuller form of existence, within which new values sunrise, and into wich there seems a brand new radiant imaginative and prescient of God...Abraham's Bosom is a gorgeous and comforting little philosophy of religion and will be extra convincing to many readers than a few summary treatises at the topic.
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Thus, to Berkeley Noone the Vision of God began to unfold itself. He was seeing where he had supposed himself blind; he was blind in ways in which he thought he had seen. Hymns of praise broke from him spontaneously--not in set phrases, nor with what he had hitherto called melody, nor with singing of the voice; but in an irrepressible gratitude. That nothing of the past was wasted was the theme of his ever-recurring song. To see evil pass into nothingness in the degree to which Dust theories were shaken off was like emerging into sunlit air after existence underground.
It was a bright summer afternoon, with the sunshine streaming in at all the windows. The nurse had given the sign by summoning Emily; Emily had called Constantia; and Constantia, Beatrice and the boys. They all kissed him, and stood or sat about the bed, his wife holding one hand and Phil the other. He hardly knew by what signs they judged, since he felt but little weaker than on other days and not much more pain. They seemed to know, however, that the time had come, and to treat him a little like the jailers and sheriffs who notify the condemned that the supreme minute is approaching.
Whatever had been matter he saw as thought; but thought which, nevertheless, projected a new type of objectivity. The rugs were thoughts; the pictures were thoughts; each tiny trifle, useful or useless, as the case might be, represented some eternal, indestructible idea. A few rows of books, some of which he had not taken from their shelves for years, were a thronging variety of thoughts, glowing, glorious, crowding one another, and yet making room for one another, like jewels in a treasury or flowers in a field.
Abraham's Bosom by Basil King