"This is the meaning of that command of the Mysteries: nothing is to be revealed to the uninitiated. The Supreme is not something to be proclaimed openly; sacred things must not be disclosed to the stranger, to one who has not attained the vision for himself.

There were no longer two—for at the moment of union with the Divine, the seer and the seen had become one. It was not a vision but a union. Whoever has been transformed through this communion with the Supreme bears its image impressed upon the soul, provided only that the experience can be remembered. Unity has been achieved. Nothing remains within or without to create multiplicity: no movement, no passion, no desire reaching outward once this ascent has been accomplished. Reason falls silent, every act of thought ceases, and—if we dare to say it—the very self is left behind. Filled with the Divine and withdrawn from all else, the soul attains perfect stillness in complete solitude. With its whole being at rest, it turns neither this way nor that, not even inward toward itself. Utterly tranquil, unmoving, it has itself become stillness.

[...]

"He was within, and yet not within. One must not ask from where He came, for there is no 'from where.' He neither came nor departed; He simply appeared and disappeared. Therefore, one must not attempt to compel His presence, but wait in silence until He reveals Himself, preparing oneself to behold Him, just as the eye waits for the rising of the sun."
The happy man does not regard any stroke of good fortune as truly important, no matter how great it may appear—not kingship, for example, nor dominion over cities and nations, nor the founding of colonies or new cities, even if he himself were their founder. Why, then, should he consider the loss of power or the destruction of his city to be of great significance? If he believed these to be great evils—or even evils at all—he would deserve ridicule for such an opinion. Nor could he be called virtuous if he thought that wood, stones, or, by Zeus, the death of mortal beings were matters of supreme importance. A truly wise person understands that death is preferable to a life imprisoned within the body.

If he himself were offered as a sacrifice, would he regard his death as an evil merely because he died upon an altar? And if he were left unburied, his body would in any case decay, whether above the earth or beneath it. If he were distressed because he received no splendid funeral, but was buried anonymously without a magnificent tomb, how petty such an attitude would be. If he were taken captive in war, "the road is always open" should he no longer be able to live happily. If his relatives were captured, if his daughters and daughters-in-law were carried away, let us suppose that he died without witnessing such events—would he leave this world believing that such things could never happen? If so, he would be foolish. He knows that such misfortunes are possible, yet they do not rob him of happiness. Even when they occur, he remains happy, because he understands that the nature of the universe allows such events to happen, and that one must follow its order willingly.

There would be no signs if everything did not unfold according to a definite order. Imagine that there are letters forever written across the heavens, or already inscribed there, moving so as to compose one pattern after another, each serving as an indication of future events. Just as, by observing one part of a living organism, we may infer the condition of another, so too, from a person's eyes or some other feature, we can discern character, dangers, and even the means of confronting them. Those are parts, and so are we; therefore, from one thing we may learn another. The entire universe is filled with signs, and the wise person is the one who understands one thing through another.

Everything, therefore, must exist in mutual relationship. Harmony is found not merely among individual parts but, above all, in the universe itself. There must be a single governing principle that makes the universe one living being, complete and unified, embracing all things. Just as every organ of a living creature has its own distinct function, so too every part of the cosmos performs its own particular task. Indeed, this truth applies even more fully to the universe than to its individual parts, for each part of the whole is itself a complete reality, greater than the parts of any ordinary living thing.

For virtuous people, poverty and illness are of no real consequence, though for the wicked they may even prove beneficial. Bodily beings must inevitably fall ill, yet such conditions are not without purpose in the order and perfection of the universe. Just as the governing Reason of the cosmos transforms what perishes into the source of new creation, allowing nothing to escape its providence, so too it incorporates sickness, suffering, and even moral evil into a higher order. Poverty and illness may benefit those who endure them, while evil itself, once it exists, becomes an instrument through which the universe accomplishes what is necessary. It serves as an example of punishment, awakens vigilance, sharpens the mind and prudence of those who resist vice, and teaches us the value of virtue by placing it beside the corruption of the wicked. Evil was not created for these purposes; yet once it comes into being, the Divine Reason makes use of it to accomplish what is right. Such is the mark of supreme power: to bring beauty even out of evil and to shape order from what appears without form.