‘Rightly viewed no meanest object is insignificant; all objects are as windows, through which the philosophic eye looks into Infinitude itself.’

Excerpt From
Carlyle, Thomas
“Sartor Resartus, and On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History”

Infinitude – the state of boundlessness – is not to be confused with infinity (denoted by called the infinity symbol) which is a complicated mathematical word. For practical purposes however the words infinitude and infinity capture the meaning of endlessness – the state of having no limit. The meaning does nothing of course to augment one’s understanding of the matter at hand – other, that is, than to exemplify that its territory is vast.

Carlyle’s assertion is amusing because he’s saying – whatever the subject – it’s guaranteed to invoke limitless speculation (a trait he seeks to dignify by identifying it with the “philosophic eye”).  My understanding is that, in the 1830s upon publication of his book Sartor Resartus et al. he became quite famous and celebrated – much to his own surprise. Though his book was a mockery of the “History of Clothing”, it was perceived by many of his readers as legitimate and worthy of pursuit.

While reflecting idly one afternoon upon the nature of this subject, I imagined I were looking through an object (doesn’t matter what) into the endless space beyond. Anyone who has mistakenly glanced upward on a clear night and perceived the stars in the dark heavens knows the abrupt confrontation about which I now speak – that sudden perception that there is no end to it all, a deductive impossibility in our archaic system of logic. It is, I find, equally impossible to beseech an alternative to what amusingly translates to a philosophic conundrum.

The nub of what I am saying is that – as Carlyle suggested – it requires only the most casual observation of what is about us to kindle an endless repercussion of thought. Interestingly – and by coincidence – I recently came upon an article intended to assist the elderly to survive monotony. The encouragement reduced to the simple mandate to replace the erstwhile youthful distractions (appeasing the variety of appetites and passions) with those directed to the most basic elements of one’s current existence (which in my case includes the drama of the corn stalks and the meandering river). The result of course is an energizing and highly palatable collection of observations, images, possibly certain activity (say boating on the river), and all the weird and intriguing intelligence and confabulations flowing therefrom.

There is no sense in seeking to qualify the infection; I seriously doubt that any but the most contrived among us has anything approaching sanity to say about infinity. While the descent to matters of lesser puzzlement may seem to legitimize the ensuing amplifications it is a distinction without a difference. Meanwhile – in this resulting state of quandary – we have unwittingly inherited the scope of discussion surrounding any object of scrutiny. Nor is the vestment imperilled by its inordinate surplus or availability. The universe is indeed a mystical compilation and complication. A mere candid reverence for the world about us is the key to untold circulation and discovery.