Four rims in all. The thinnest cylinder, as thick as a small tree branch or a hand-axe handle, could slide into the second cylinder, which again could slide into the last. Then the whole thing was no longer and no more wide than a wine bottle. The sliding took some effort; the action was halting and stubborn, as if the telescope found no dignity in its own reduction. There were dents in the metal of the cylinders, signs of wear and usage. But the lenses were clear and true and without blemish. Weighed on upturned palms the telescope was surprisingly light, as if it might splinter like parchment if dropped, its secret lost forever. * * * Gracian knew from experience that certain objects seem to possess a soul, or at least hold within them a store of memories and experiences that can be read upon their surfaces like type. He felt this of the telescope from the moment he saw it on its paper bed. He felt the life of it and heard its calls to him, a music of glass and metal. Images came to him all at once.
