I send W. the creation hymn from the Vedas, one of my favourites:
There was neither non-existence nor existence then; there was neither the realm of space nor the sky which is beyond. What stirred? Where? In whose protection? Was there water, bottomlessly deep? Was there death or immortality? Was there a sign of night and day? Who really knows?
Who will here proclaim it? Whence was it produced? Whence is this creation? The gods came afterwards, with the creation of this universe. Who then knows whence it has arisen? Perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not. Only the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows – or perhaps he does not know.
Ah yes, it's my sort of thing, W. says. Vague and spurious, W. says. Vague, spurious and full of pathos.
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