He indicated the volume present upon the lectern.

“This artifact is not what it seems. Both more than any man has ever dreamed. And less than all are certain of. In ways adults will never see, and children’s eyes are made of.”

He seemed to quote from a passage, then:

“Without such meanings as you ascribe! Beyond the before of meanings!” said the Autodidact. “All that is and arises from seed or blood, is a riddle that swallows itself!”

Alas, for the children of men cannot see the source or form here conveyed in terms; they no longer understand the meanings of the things they appear to worship. They adore the dead shells. The dead details. The words. The remains. Of the spirit there is only mockery and ersatz emulations.

But all is not lost. There is a spark within us locked… awaiting precious signals… from afar. And however tangled the relationship between that spark and this book ( he paused and I could sense such knots constrain the souls of the damned ) it shall be reconciled.

May it be in spirit, more than blood.