Edvard Munch, The Mystery of a Summer Night (1892).
The film has broken, the projection bulb burned out, leaving imprinted in the corneas of the audience a vision of the angel of death, a portent of the missile which hangs in that moment above the theatre, its arrival inaugurated by a brief hymn and a narratorial interjection cut short by the rocket’s descent.
“And it is just here, just at this dark and silent frame, that the pointed tip of the Rocket, falling nearly a mile per second, absolutely and forever without sound, reaches its last unmeasurable gap above the roof of this old theatre, the last delta-t.
There is time, if you need the comfort, to touch the person next to you, or to reach between your own cold legs … or, if song must find you, here’s one They never taught anyone to sing, a hymn by William Slothrop, centuries forgotten and out of print, sung to a simple and pleasant air of the period. Follow the bouncing ball:
There is a Hand to turn the time,
Though thy Glass today be run,
Till the Light that hath brought the Towers low
Find the last poor Pret’rite one…
Till the Riders sleep by ev’ry road,
All through our crippl’d Zone,
With a face on ev’ry mountainside,
And a Soul in ev’ry stone. …
Now everybody—”
(GR, p. 760).
Implicitly, the final scene of Gravity’s Rainbow returns us to the opening scene of the novel, when a screaming comes across the sky, a sound we have heard before though we did not recognise it at the time. Now the roar of the rocket comes belatedly to our attention, though it evades our senses: moving faster than sound, the tip of the rocket reaches us ahead of its announcement—though in a double-inversion its arrival was already announced on the first page. What is going on? The event is declared ahead of its realisation; the declaration is only recognised after its moment of realisation is missed. We will return to this double disjunction of time in due course.
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