Forgive me for the title, Gentle Reader. It was an opportunity I couldn’t allow to pass. But here I am digressing before I’ve even begun.
Consider this tweet from an impressive young woman:
“Science cannot solve the ultimate mystery of nature. And that is because, in the last analysis, we ourselves are part of nature and therefore part of the mystery that we are trying to solve”.
— Taya (@travelingflying) January 8, 2026
— Max Planck
Which makes me wonder: are we the explorers of the universe, or is the… pic.twitter.com/T6iqMeEEFt
I was unfamiliar with the Planck quote before this. It called to mind something Professor John Lennox said:
"Nonsense remains nonsense, even when it comes from the mouths of famous scientists."
The nonsense is expressed in the phrase “solve the ultimate mystery of nature.” Who is trying to do any such thing? For that matter, what is “the ultimate mystery of nature?” Were I to ask a hundred randomly selected persons to explain that phrase, I’d expect a hundred different answers. (The C.S.O. just contributed this: “Two or three hundred, if they were Jewish.” She would know.)
However, Taya’s addendum piqued my personal interest:
“[A]re we the explorers of the universe, or is the universe exploring itself through us?”
I stumbled near to that in what I believe to be my best novel, the one for which I’d like to be remembered:
As they entered the great room that contained the wine vats, Ray pulled Larry aside and whispered “What are we about to see?”
Larry shook his head. “I haven’t seen it myself.”
“What additives and clarifying agents will you require?” Ottavio said as they walked past the vats.
“None,” Fountain said.
“Then what is your method?”
“You will see.”
The others hung back as Ottavio directed Fountain to the vat of unclarified Malbec. The Monti vats were made of aged wood bound in black iron bands. They were smaller than those at Broadhead. Their bases rested flat on the villa floor. The room was filled with the aromas of wine, yeast, and fermentation.
Fountain imperceptibly took command of her host. She urged him close to the vat, took his hands and set them against its surface, moved to stand behind him, slid her arms around his chest, and rested her chin upon his shoulder. They stood thus in silence for perhaps half a minute. Within her embrace, Ottavio Monti trembled as if his strength were being tried to its limits.
“What is it you feel?” she murmured against his cheek. “Tell me everything.”
“Wood,” he said. “Rough, warm wood. And...the wine. And...” His voice dropped most of an octave. “And life.” He trembled in her embrace. “It is alive! But the vat is two hundred years old and the wine is grapes crushed to a sauce! How can this be?”
“All things are alive,” Fountain whispered. “All things are aware. What else do you feel?”
“I...” His tremor intensified.
“Tell me, Ottavio Monti.” She squeezed him gently. “It is safe. It is right.”
“Love,” he whispered incredulously. “Your love. And mine.”
“All things know love,” she said in the voice of an oracle dispensing a mystical revelation. “And all things respond to love and return it in equal measure. Do you love the wine?”
“Si, molto.”
“Then tell it so,” Fountain said. She laid a hand over his heart. “From here, Ottavio. Use any words, any language you like, but tell it that you love it and listen for its answer.”
The vintner of Villa Monti closed his eyes and bowed his head. Fountain held him snugly.
Larry, Trish, and Domenico Monti stood transfixed. Ray murmured the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.
“Gran Dio!” Ottavio whispered.
He pulled his hands from the vat and dropped to his knees. Fountain released him, ascended the steps to the vat’s rim, took up the dipper that hung there, extracted a cup of wine, and descended. She knelt before Ottavio and offered him the dipper.
“Taste it.”
He did. His eyes brimmed over. He handed the dipper back to Fountain.
“Now do you see?” she said.
He smiled through his tears and nodded.
She rose, brought the dipper to the others, and bade them taste it. They did, in turn.
“Wow,” Larry said.
“Oh my God,” Ray said.
“As good as Broadhead’s, maybe even better,” Trish said.
“Gloria a Dio,” Domenico said.
Fountain nodded serenely.
“All things are alive. All things are aware.” I’m not the first to explore that idea. Orson Scott Card did so in his Alvin Maker series. Perhaps others have done so as well.
But is there even the slightest possibility that it’s true? Given what we know about life and consciousness, it seems impossible. But in all candor and humility, how much do we really know about those things?
In his magnum opus Star Maker, Olaf Stapledon imagined the universe as an entity slowly evolving toward cosmic sentience, ultimately to mate with its Creator. It’s a grand vision, arguably the largest any science fiction writer has ever entertained, but it’s the reverse of the one Fountain expresses in my snippet: that even the tiniest things possess a form of sentience and responsiveness.
Before we go any deeper into this morass, the above is a fictional premise. It’s not one I put my personal stock in. Besides, Fountain might have been overly broad, mightn’t she? For her to perform her miracles, only living things and things derived from them need the properties of which she speaks.
Yet in a romantic way, that premise appeals to a yearning all men possess: the desire to be loved and valued, as widely and greatly as possible. If the whole universe were aware and could love you, whether in its tiniest bits or as a mighty whole, what would it be worth to you to have that love?
What about the Figure behind the universe? He whose will causes and sustains all things? How much is it worth to you to have His love?
Just an early-morning thought.
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