Poetry
Date Published: August 24, 2026
All joy wants eternity … wants deep, deep eternity. With this declaration of primordial lust, the patron saint of post-modernity exalts his mania for joy, alongside the unquenchable thirst of the will to power, and, with it, the futile quest for the super-human. The cultural force of this dictum, which has become a commonplace among the literati, still drives the onslaught of thought and behavior, even, and perhaps foremost, among those who remain ignorant of its explicit pronouncement. A prophet is always heard most widely and wrongly, not through his own voice, but through the discordant voices of his wayward disciples. Amid the endless cacophony of copycats, who vainly mimic the grand style of their master, you’re tempted to forget the desperate loneliness of the solitary individual, a hermit in his many hideaways and masks, who, above all else, sought to transmute his solitude into a macho justification for human tenderness.
Late at night, when she is fast asleep, you crawl into bed; and in the midst of the dark, quiet night, you hear rhythmic spasms in her breathing as she dreams. Thoughtlessly, carelessly, inevitably, your mind empties itself so that there is only the sound of her breathing – paradoxically steady and spasmodic. In your own late-night, overwrought, careworn mania, you manage to convince yourself that what you really hear at this moment is the sound of eternity singing. Physiologically, you might interpret this as a mental phantom concocted out of the stresses and strains of a tiring day. But this illusion produces a reality that the mind cannot deny without destroying a part of itself. Loving your mind too much to bear losing even its most illusory fragments, you cannot help but think that these moments are gateways to eternity, that they are not merely the pleasant afterimages you dream up to forget a day of painstaking and tedious work but that they are indeed what you have lived through the day to reach, to grasp and caress, if only for a fleeting instant. Such moments (and not the jobs you do) are the serious work of your life.
This book, the third and final one in the eternity trilogy, continues to recount the conspiracy of nowhere and now here that unfolded in “The History of Eternity” and “Passages to Eternity.” Read this book, if you will, and follow the adventures of this paradox as it reveals itself in the lives of 36 historical individuals, including Musil, Bloy, Peguy, George Eliot, Kripke, Blake, Nishida Kitaro, Cather, Nagarjuna, Fitzgerald, Bruno, Paz, John Duns Scotus, Mallarmé, Burke, Achebe, Murdoch, Epictetus, St. John of the Cross, Turing, Lispector, Goya, Pirandello, Blanchot, Tennyson, Messiaen, Cantor, O’Connor, Nin, Lowell, Racine, Vidal, Niebuhr, Twain, Derrida, C.S. Lewis and many others.
James Winder spent the lion’s share of his career as a mid-level manager and intelligence analyst for the National Security Agency (NSA), where he retired in 2013 after 30 years of service. At NSA, Mr. Winder’s most noteworthy assignment was in 1991-1992, when he served as Assistant Director of the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board (PFIAB). During that time, he co-authored a report for President George H.W. Bush on intelligence lessons learned during the first Gulf War and provided extensive research and documentation on a wide range of other matters of great interest to the PFIAB board members. In a special commendation, then Acting PFIAB Chairman, Admiral Bobby Ray Inman, cited Mr. Winder for his “expert advice to the President of the United States” and for his “extremely incisive and timely contributions on some very complex issues.”
During three decades at NSA, Mr. Winder produced three classified, book-length studies, most notably including a comprehensive report on an important subject, which won NSA’s annual Cryptologic Literature Award. He also wrote a wide variety of other in-depth reports on Soviet intelligence, terrorism, and technical threats to U.S. telecommunications.
Mr. Winder is the author of The History of Eternity, a series of philosophic meditations in poetic form, which is, according to Mr. Winder, the cryptic story of his life and the lives of many others. There is – in the history of philosophy or literature – no other work that is akin to it in nature and scope.
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