The eyes of the tiger cannot see, except with the light from within
itself, by the light of its own desire. Its own white, cold light is so
fierce that the other warm light of day is outshone, it is not, it does
not exist. So the white eyes of the tiger gleam to a point of
concentrated vision, upon that which does not exist. Hence its
terrifying sightlessness. The something which I know I am is hollow
space to its vision, offers no resistance to the tiger's looking. It can
only see of me that which it knows I am, a scent, a resistance, a
voluptuous solid, a struggling warm violence that it holds overcome, a
running of hot blood between its Jaws, a delicious pang of live flesh in
the mouth. This it sees. The rest is not.
And what is the rest, that which is-not the tiger, that which the tiger
is-not? What is this?
What is that which parted ways with the terrific eagle-like angel of the
senses at the Renaissance? The Italians said, 'We are one in the Father:
we will go back.' The Northern races said, 'We are one in Christ: we
will go on.'
What _is_ the consummation in Christ? Man knows satisfaction when he
surpasses all conditions and becomes, to himself, consummate in the
Infinite, when he reaches a state of infinity.
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