![]() ![]() Is it so difficult to imagine? A God of flesh and bone? A God that shits? His voice chokes off, as if overwhelmed by some passion: rage, sorrow, Crivano can’t guess which. Have we considered what this might mean? Innumerable are the egos in man, Paracelsus writes, and in him are angels and devils, heaven and hell. Should it be transcended? When we seek to do this, is our desire truly to know God? Or is it to know that God truly is as we always have imagined him: the perfect distillate of our corrupt selves? So-we are made in the image of God. ![]() The liquid strikes the surface with a weak slap. Then he steps to the windows, and with a smooth sudden motion slings the chamberpot’s contents into the canal below. But should it be? Tristão fixes Crivano with a fierce glare. For even in our baseness-in our excrement-we might discern the work of our Creator. “Often we are told, and rightly so, that we can know God by knowing ourselves, for we are made in His image. ![]()
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