Philosophers multiply our general nouns and verbs; they give fresh sense to stale terms; “man” and “nature” are their characters; while novelists toil at filling in the blanks in proper names and at creating other singular affairs. A novelist may pin a rose to its stem as you might paper a tail to its donkey, the rose may blush at his command, but the philosopher can elevate that reddening from an act of simple verbal predication to an angel-like ingression, ennobling it among Beings. The soul, we must remember is the philosopher’s invention, as thrilling a creation as, for instance, Madame Bovary.

William Gass (b. 1924)
U.S. critic, philosopher(1971).

The philosopher's invention is the soul...and how is it manifested? realized? If the philosopher invents the soul, is it our challenge to define, refine and see that invention? If we choose not to agree with the philosopher, does that then keep us from the soul? our soul? Is philosophy the key to understanding the next chapter, our progression beyond this plain? or is it our faith and belief founded in nature?

The questions multiply. The answers are scarce.

Heavy stuff for such a cold, bleak day.