Hildegarde Serle

“We’re living in a truly enigmatic world,” she said, shielding her glasses with her hand. “I’ve been reading all sorts of objects for years, and yet I feel as if I know nothing. An Earth shattered to pieces. Deliberately forgetful family spirits. Indecipherable Books. You.”

God could be so cruel in his indifference, he horrified me. God knew how to show his gentle side, too, and I loved him as I’ve loved no one else.

Who is God? What does God want? What does God look like?

All of his memories gravitate around this central character, and yet none of them can put a face to him. But the emotion choking him when, as now, he observes God from his table, from his folded arms, through the parting of his hair, is only too clear.

Fear.

He doesn’t understand, he has never understood, what God expects of him.