If then we believe this unfailable word of truth, who would not be content to mourn awhile, that he may rejoice for ever?

Disagreement in substance or essence […] may be called Disproportion, as there is a disproportion between finities and infinities, i.e. there is no proportion between them.

Let me throw this out there – how about if we make the igloo out of butter? Would that work?

Or is there some way in which the product of that solitude—writing—may none the less be profoundly social, rejoining the commonalty of society, and through its indirections and specificities being the most authentic contribution the writer can offer?