Ours is the long journey of the Saturday, between suffering, aloneness, unutterable waste, on the one hand and the dream of liberation, or rebirth, on the other.
In the face of the torture of a child, of the love which is Friday, even the greatest art and poetry are almost helpless.
The apprehensions and figurations in the play of metaphysical imagining, in the poem and the music, which tell of pain and hope, of the flesh that is said to taste of ash and of the spirit which is said to have the savour of fire, are always Sabbatarian.
They have risen out of an immensity of waiting which is that of man. Without them, how could we be patient?
— George Steiner, Real Presences, 231