Final Course: Dessert (Humans vs. Nature)

Not long after our visit to St. Peter's Basilica, we were walking by some ruins--by four perdurable pillars, in perfect order, all extending into the darkening sky--all pretending to hold up the evening sky. I can't remember where we were, but I remember thinking this: "However genius, skilled, patient, uncompromising the effort, humans cannot equal nature. St. Peter's itself, the largest, most opulent church in the world--that gorgeous, great ceiling--it has nothing on the heavens." There were only a few stars showing above the pillars. It was not yet twilight, and we were exhausted, trudging our way back to the room, like slaves of too much wonder, but the impression stuck. Human creation is only ever less than truth. See what you think. Your final, culminating (and capitulating) taste of Italy is a contest: Humans vs. Nature.

Humans

vs. Nature.

Humans

vs. Nature.

Humans

vs. Nature.

Humans

vs. Nature.

Humans

vs. Nature.

Humans

vs. Nature.

Of course, there is no contest. Humans distinguish themselves by how well they emulate or illuminate (through abstraction) or work with nature (--Nietzsche would say, by how much truth they can endure). Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, Donatello--those four teenage mutant ninja turtles from Florence, and everyone else, of whatever medium, or materials, with whatever skillset, or confidence, or powerful support--they might vie with one another, but never with nature. Their greatness is their humility, I feel certain each one of them would concur. But here's the good news: as an observer, you don't really have to choose. You may love both, and for different reasons--or for the same reason.

Nevertheless, the "contest" stuck with me the moment I conceived it, partly because it was and is disorienting. Had you asked me why I wanted to go to Italy before I went, I would not have said the Dolomites. But their undeniable, and, at the very least, equal glory made me realize how limited my time and imagination are. Suddenly, all of Europe--the whole world, no less, becomes not just a bunch of varied examples of genius, culture, and history, but also the soil out of which any such effulgence grows. The primal spark still glows, and still inspires. My two hands, for all their years, are still too small, and smaller still, watching my children gather their own unique impressions. What did I think I could show them? The world shows itself to all of us. I cup what I can, get as much as I need, and then reel from the fact that this is hardly any of all that can be had, and that I cannot share even it--not with anyone. All I can say is there's great and clear reason to be enthused, and all I can do is be enthused, and I am. We are.

"Mom, Dad, this is the best ice cream I have ever had!" "Shhh, don't bother me, kid; I'm eating here!" (--And it's very quality is dripping all over the place.)