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Updated: May 2, 2025
Here were innumerable images of Guadma, the counterfeit presentment of the Fourth Boodh, whose successor is to see the end of all things, innumerable, and of every stature, from Hop-o'-my-thumbs to Hurlo-thrombos, but all of the identical orthodox pattern, with pendulous ears, one hand planted squarely on the knee, the other sleeping in the lap, an eternity of front face, and a smooth stagnancy of expression, typical of an unfathomable calm, the Guadma of a span as grim as he of ten cubits, and he of ten cubits as vacant as the Guadma of a span, of stone, of lead, of wood, of clay, of earthenware and alabaster, on their bottoms, on their heads, on their backs, on their sides, on their faces, black, white, red, yellow, an eye gone, a nose gone, an ear gone, a head gone, an arm off at the shoulder, a leg at the knee, a back split, a bosom burst, Guadma, imperturbable, eternal, calm, in the midst of time, timeless!
I think my heart was never more sharply wrung than once at Prome, in the porch of a grim old temple of Guadma; a kitten was playing with a feather there.
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