There is a classic novel in which, according to my protean memory, a theory of infinites is illustrated. By this meme, any process involves cycles in which you begin and end in one spot. A stoont at the piano begins by sitting still, then she wracks her body in pumps and fades, trying to work out the sonata, and finally as she masters the art, she returns to sublime inertia. A talisman of this fever in the story is a figuerine of an African tribal mother in simplicity and serenity, and in the last scene, some Welshman, probably named Rupert, meets his fate by going naked into the Nordic snows, a return to splendor.
This reminds me of Sid Caesar.
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