So it’s true! So that Parisian sage has managed to extract from his retorts and flasks the crystalline scarlet that encrusts the walls of my palace!” And as the tiny gnome said this, he paced back and forth, back and forth, sometimes with tiny skips, through the deep cave in which he dwelled, and as he paced, his long beard quivered and the bell on the tip of his azure hat tinkled. And indeed, the news was true: The chemist Frémy—a friend of centenarian Chevreul (quasi-Althotas)—had just discovered a way to make sapphires and rubies. Distressed, perturbed, and filled with wrath, the gnome (who was expert in the arts of magic, and possessor of a lively genius) went on muttering to himself: “Oh! wise men of the Middle Ages! Oh Albertus Magnus, Averroës, Raymond Lull! Your skills were not enough to make the great sun of the Philosopher’s Stone to shine in your day, yet now—without studying the Aristotelian formulas, without one jot of the Cabbala or necromancy—comes a man of the nineteenth century to make in the light of day what we create here, in our subterranean chambers.
What do You think about Selected Writings (Dario, Ruben)?
