Half racing back over the conversation as he stepped out from his final appointment with The Psychologist, Ray found he wasn’t mad at himself for the parts he wished he could have said better. In fact, all that might matter was what he saw in that moment—something smaller, and bigger, and more, and less than anything he had ever let himself see before. And he was happy to feel every automatic self-condemnation get swallowed up in paradoxical satire.
What Ray saw was nothingness. He saw what everything he had ever tried to show with words was not.
And he laughed, struck by how self-contained and funny he and his fellow humans so obviously tended to be.
Oh irony!
For he knew then that true blankness . . . that negative capability, or lack between even space and time . . . was precisely what the fog could neither allow for nor defeat. Never.
Ray also thought again of Johnston, and once more became the loving mother bird.
I don't know anything 