In his dreams God was much occupied. Spoken to He did not answer. Called to did not hear. The man could see Him bent at his own work. As if through a glass. Seated solely in the light of his own presence. Weaving the world. In his hands it flowed out of nothing and in his hands it vanished into nothing once again. Endlessly. Endlessly. . . . And somewhere in that tapestry that was the world in its making and in its unmaking was a thread that was he and he woke weeping (149).

There is but one world and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. . . . Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made (143).

Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing