So I'm stumbling on through David Bentley Hart's The Beauty of the Infinite, a work that I am only able to grasp by impressions, when I can grasp it at all. The first part is all about the narratives of the sublime in continental philosophy, from Kant and Nietzsche on up to Derrida, Deleuze, Foucalt, and Levinas. What is it that keeps me trudging through these wild grasses looming so high over my head?
Well, the prose is splendid. And when I cheat ahead with the index, I find sentences such as this:
“Bach is the greatest of Christian theologians, the most inspired witness to the ordo amoris in the fabric of being; not only is there no other composer capable of more freely developing lines or of more elaborate structures of tonal mediation (wheresoever the line goes, Bach is there also), but no one as compellingly demonstrates that the infinite is beauty and that beauty is infinite.”
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