If I had only stopped there. If I had only written a white book, a good grimoire, for all the adepts of Isis Unveiled, explaining to them that the secretum secretorum no longer needed to be sought, that the book of life contained no hidden meaning; it was all there, in the bellies of all the Lias of the world, in the hospital rooms, on straw pallets, on riverbanks,
Casaubon is undergoing the revelation after starting to accept the weird coincidences and numerology of conspiracy theories that it is all an unknowing metaphor for the Diabolical's impotence.
