Chapter 13. Universal Wasteland.

March 13, 1781

Forty-two-year-old William Herschel—it must be mentioned that he looked the same on the outside as he did 10 years ago, but he was a different person with different thoughts, morals, and feelings, which, it must be admitted, involuntarily awakened in our heart and mind the idea of the Ship of Theseus—was slowly and with special inspiration climbing a long, invariably leading upward spiral staircase—step by step, he was striving for his goal and he did not want anything in this world as much as he longed to be near the telescope at this hour: in these minutes, minutes of swift movement, he unconsciously thanked the Almighty for giving man this very form, for it allowed him to now achieve his strictly defined goals in the most comfortable and least limited way: William Herschel always achieved his goals—he, like no one else, perfectly understood the meaning of each step in each staircase, and therefore he also deeply understood that it is possible to climb to the very top of the universe only with the help of one's own legs, which, in turn, must be as strong as steel, for they, at the appropriate time, contain not only that safety, but also, what is important, that ability to move on.

A few moments later, finding himself among the empty spaces of his very original astronomical observatory, William Herschel, at that hour, looking intently with the help of the aforementioned device for studying celestial bodies into the essence, nature, and depth of the celestial canvas, involuntarily, without consciously wishing it in any way, shuddered—a few minutes before that moment, having made one of the most significant discoveries in the history of mankind, namely, having found among the boundless expanses of the universal wasteland the dust and flesh of the very matter that his descendants would later call the planet Uranus, he, being exceptionally inspired, with special zeal, after a short break and rest, continued to explore that vast celestial dark-faced shore with myriads of barely distinguishable grains of sand: curious, but for what reason did he shudder?! Perhaps because he, being here, on earth, found there, in the sky, something that was capable of opening up by at least a few inches, at least by a few centimeters, the very sacred and mysterious curtain, behind which the enigma of the existing universe, and accordingly of real reality, was hiding in a very natural way? Strange! But why was it necessary to hide and conceal it in such a diligent way? Why are true, deep, holistic, but not torn knowledge inaccessible to all mankind, but open only to those who are more than human—who rise above this formation of living matter in the same way as the Colossus of Rhodes rose above other creations of the Ancient World?! Why, from the first day of his existence on earth, is a person daily obliged, of course, for the sake of his own good, to languidly, even if at times with ephemeral inspiration, untangle the infinitely long thread of the glorious Ariadne—does this activity, in its utopianism, not really resemble the filling of the Danaids' barrel by the naive daughters of their father or the eternal movement of the tired Sisyphus?! Why in this world are there many who are enlightened, but few who are initiated—everyone looks, but only a few see: those who are the chosen among the called!

Knowledge, and even more so the ability to see, is not a random wealth that, due to a combination of certain factors of luck, favor, or fate, you can suddenly find at the edge of the road, not deeply buried in the ground or growing on one of the trees of a wonderful garden, knowledge is a wealth that is obtained exclusively by hard and persistent work in the immeasurable mine of existing being, where the pickaxe is nothing other than the thirst for this knowledge, for it, like any metal, is sometimes not able to withstand excessive loads: knowledge cannot be won in a lottery, but it can be given away free of charge to all those who exist and those who will exist—however, does everyone need knowledge and will there be those who will yearn to accept as a gift from a vessel filled with gold, a lonely inconspicuous stone hiding in the depths of it, in which the whole essence of being and the universe is enclosed?

So, with special attention looking into the essence of the telescope or, if you like, with the help of the telescope into the depth of the Universe, and most likely—into the mystery of his own existence and the universe—William Herschel, one of those who on this day, perhaps without fully realizing it himself, was able to slightly change the state of the historical weather, instantly distinguished how a small star flashed before his eyes with some chaotic flickering! A small star! But was it really small? How did it see itself in this world and what were the other stars in this world? Looking from its previous, static state at the tirelessly shining round dance of distant stars, which in their radiance in its gaze really resembled the eyes of Basan bulls in the minutes when picturesque green meadows stretched before them, it believed that these combinations of matter were extremely small and extremely distant in relation to it—curious… and didn't its ancient relatives also think about it in these minutes?

Being indescribably bright for itself, and also exclusively filled with life, feelings, and dreams, for others it was only a faint flicker—having lived all its conscious life in the halo of its own light, which continuously, from its very birth, constantly filled the surrounding being, from the point of view of other views, the views of its distant brethren, it was only a small spark, which chaotically drew its embodiment on the dark shagreen of the celestial parchment: being exceptional for itself, it was only ordinary for all others who were similar to it, for it was no worse and no better than them. Without fully realizing it, it was only a drop of paint on the universal canvas, one of the countless number of sheep in the universal wasteland, one of the grains of sand on the universal shore—its fate was, however, like the fate of other stars, loneliness. It, continuously radiating a gentle light and a gentle warmth, perhaps to some extent understood that closeness with one like it was capable of destroying both of them, burning both of them to the ground, to the very ashes—they are not able to exist in the paradigm of a society formation, and therefore they are left only with silent thoughts, feelings, observations, and also that very lonely radiance, which is the breath of a star. Such is the fate of every celestial body—loneliness saves its nature from a sudden death.