The parable goes like this:
The astronomer's wife is watching TV and hears the breaking news: scientists have just discovered that a nearby star, soon to be quasar, will (within a decade) irradiate the earth and the space around it hundreds of light years in every direction, wiping out all known life. Overtaken with the horror of it and stricken with panic, the wife dashes from their cottage and into the observatory where her husband has isolated himself for the evening. “A star is going to explode and kill us all!” she screams.
“I know,” he replies calmly, but not dismissively.
“What?” she asks dumbfounded, seeing as this is breaking news and he has had no means of communication with the outside world save his giant telescope.
“Sweetheart,” he says lovingly, “I’ve known for years, I just didn’t want to worry anyone.”
I've been accused, lovingly, of a certain degree of didacticism. That is not my intention. But what have intentions ever counted for in art? Also, remember, ask and ye shall receive (permissions to reprint this elsewhere).
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