Magellan's Log: Iris Murdoch: In my bower

I was reading, it was so comfortable in that small, closed world, with its skillful god, knowing what came before and what would come after. The god decreed a break. The words stopped at the end of a chapter. I looked up to the green, green, green and vast blue beyond. Oh, those tiny worlds of work and art, of thought and theory hold us out of habit and some choice. We come to think we belong there when in truth—the only limnable truth—it is here, linked, smoothly wholly linked, that we have our absolutely unutterably perfect being.