It is in these big spaces that the genius that occasionally fires a generation or moves the race ahead is born. We could ponder, with James Thurber, the paradox of which is the container and which is the thing contained. The Priest of Average insists that the soul is the contained, and the physical universe the Container. And most of us are content to politely nod to his sermon, while dreaming of a Sunday dinner not yet made. The humor of his grammatical perplexity is in its resonance of truth.
Nouns are subject to the spaces within which they exist.
To those given only to the body's frequencies, a thought is not a thing. Conceptually, even emotions are nebulous, troublesome and indefinite in size when the observer is glued to the heavier wavelength of optical, tactical, olfactory and other nerve-defined perceptions. She who sees clearly the wave and sweep of emotions may still find certain concepts nebulous, hard to pin down. The being who perceives thoughts as the dance of form in the universe will happily have the more solid forms of light, mass, energy, emotion, but will be able to sense a broad concept as a definite object, to be measured, admired like a shiny Caddy, appreciated like a Rodin work. To such a one, even aesthetics have their form and limit, their palpable frequencies.