What Angel Would Hear Me?: The Erotics of Transference

Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic

orders? And even if one of them suddenly

pressed me against his heart, I should dissolve in his

mightier Being. For Beauty's nothing

but beginning of Terror, we're still just able to bear,

and why we adore it so is because it serenely disdains

to destroy us. Each single angel is terrible.

And so I contain myself, and choke down the call

of depth-dark sobbing. Alas, who is there

we can make use of?1