Does it take the courage of Daedalus or the foolishness of Icarus to ask now: “Is there a greater infinity still than those of the naturals and the reals?” Does the asking imply a sort of imagination in whose presence ours shrivels to a dot? Or has abstraction somehow insulated the mind against the reality it calls up, so that the imagination we rightly praise is one of intuiting relationships and devising ways of rigorously proving that they hold?
