noon
If this were death -- how exquisite ! And Time was not a passing thing , for it lay , he says , somehow in an ocean everywhere , heaped up in gulfs and spaces . It was as though he could help himself and take it . That morning , had he so wished , could last forever ; he could go backwards and taste the shadows of the night again , or forward and bask in the glory of hot noon . There were no parts of things , and so no restlessness , no sense of incompleteness , no divisions . This quiet of the dawn lay in himself , and , since he loved it , lay there , cool and sweet and sparkling for -- years ; almost -- forever . * * * * * Moreover , while this giant form of _ Urwelt _ - life his inner self had assumed was new , it yet seemed somehow familiar .