I remember learning about light a couple of years ago in Chemistry class. The teacher couldn’t explain to me clearly. “So light is reflected?” I asked. She goes yes, objects reflect light. I thought about it, read a bit, then went oh, shit. It’s unbelievable. The world is actually literally made of light. The concept that photons would be absorbed by atoms, and in turn, molecules, and be expelled according to its frequency blew my mind. I slipped my hand into shadows and withdrew it into bright sunlight, always wondering what it looked like right there in the middle of both extremes.
I used to live by the Thames, in Rotherhithe (London). The day-time light from the water has a wonderful, ageless transluscence that I’d normally associate with Dartmoor. I miss that light as much as the city itself.
I thought of you when reading this a couple of minutes ago:
‘Moses de Leon, the author of the Zohar, the main book of the Caballa, said that language has the quality of light, because it gathers light into itself. And that light is the only manifestation of God the living can perceive. Thus he said that “to read the universe is to write the universe.” ‘
(Chuck Wachtel, ‘Behind the Mask: Narrative Voice in Fiction‘)
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