"Surrounded by a multitude of threads, buried in folds and folds of woven goods, the Weaver sits. No Light can enter [168] where he sits. By the light of a tiny candle, carried upon the summit of his head, he dimly sees. He gathers handful after handful of the threads and seeks to weave the carpet of his thoughts and dreams, his desires and his aims. His feet move steadily; his hands work swiftly; his voice, without cessation, chants the words: 'I weave the pattern which I seek and like. The warp and woof is planned by my desire. I gather here a thread and here a color. I gather there another. I blend the colors and I mix and blend the threads. As yet I cannot see the pattern, but it will surely measure up to my desire.'

Loud voices, and a movement from outside the darkened chamber where the Weaver sits; they grow in volume and in power. A window breaks and, though the Weaver cries aloud, blinded by the sudden light, the sun shines in upon his woven carpet. Its ugliness is thus revealed...