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88 the angels; or, god’s eyeball The angels, the conventional angels of history, are coming to turn in their wings—alonglineof identicalpilgrimswindsoutof thewarehousewherethey are supposed to turn them in; the line stretches out in a straight line as far as that cliff over there in the distance; then the angel line comes down at an angle fromtheair,afterslicingoff fromspace.It’struethatallthesebeatingsof wings givetheimpressionof takingoff,butactuallythey’rethesoundsof vastnumbers of seraphimwingshoveringandlandingforthelasttime.Insidethewarehouse, despite the obvious fact that this turn-in represents a gesture of considerable philosophical gravity, feathers fill the air, and there is an atmosphere like that of apillowfightinadormitoryforveryyounggirls.Afterprocessing,theangels come out the other side of the warehouse (a structure which is best described by saying that it resembles God’s eyeball); some are laughing and joking as if relieved,makingsuperciliousremarksaboutnatureandmankindandchatting casually about life in the fourth dimension where they hear they are going to be shipped to live from now on. The rest seem deflated and two-dimensional: theyfrown,lookpale,carryattachécases,pursuecareersinsales,actseriously, walklikemechanicalmenandwomen,andhavekeyscomingoutof theirbacks. Everybodyseemsslightlyuncomfortableaboutthesesuitsof newclothingthey have been given to wear; and even now, so soon, they seem puzzled when they find the single long feather which has been placed in each suit for a souvenir. Also,asasecondsouvenir,everybodygetsanindescribablybeautifulandexciting plasticashtraywhichisanexactreplicainminiatureof thewarehouse;stamped on it in the silvery lettering angels are supposed to like are the words “God’s Eyeball,” together with the date of the present year. ...

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