The gold in the earring, the gold applied to the halo in a fresco, the gold on the dome of the Massachusetts State House, the gold flecks on Notre Dame's football helmets, and the gold bars hidden away in America's official cookie jar at Fort Knox are all made of the same stuff. Despite the complex obsessions it has created, gold is wonderfully simple in its essence. That explains why its radiance is forever. In Cairo, you will find a tooth bridge made of gold for an Egyptian 4500 years ago, its condition good enough to go into your mouth today. The density of gold means that even very small amounts can function as money of large denominations.
Gold is almost as soft as putty.
You could draw an ounce of gold into a wire fifty miles in length, or, if you prefer, you could beat that ounce into a sheet that would cover one hundred square feet. Unlike any other element on earth, almost all the gold ever mined is still around, much of it now in museums bedecking statues of the ancient gods and their furniture or in numismatic displays, some on the pages of illustrated manuscripts, some in gleaming bars buried in the dark cellars of central banks, a lot of it on fingers, ears, and teeth. There is a residue that rests quietly in shipwrecks at the bottom of the seas. And yet it is gold that we call the precious metal. We yearn for gold and yawn at steel.