W.B.Yeats "The needle's eye"

All the stream that's roaring by

Came out of a needle's eye;

Things unborn, things that are gone,

From needle's eye still goad it on.

In the Gospel it is through the needle's eye that a man enters the Kingdom of Heaven. 

Matthew, Chapter 19, verse 24

24 Again I say to you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”

The image suggests also the narrow entrance of womb and passage-grave, the dimensionless punctum through which life comes and goes. Above all, the needle's eye is apt to receive the thread of destiny spun by the Fates that runs on "Plato's spindle"  from birth to death (The Republic  Book X):  

"The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity; and on the upper surface of each circle is a siren, who goes round with them, hymning a single tone or note. The eight together form one harmony; and round about, at equal intervals, there is another band, three in number,each sitting upon her throne: these are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, who are clothed in white robes and have chaplets upon their heads, Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos, who accompany with their voices the harmony of the sirens --Lachesis singing of the past, Clotho of the present, Atropos of the future..."

Or, in the "dreaming  back", when "time is unwound" from death to birth...

Nota Bene:
To goad = to drive with or as if with a goad; spur; incite

Борис Пастернак "Мефистофель"

Из массы пыли за заставы 
По воскресеньям высыпали, 
Меж тем как, дома не застав их, 
Ломились ливни в окна спален. 

Велось у всех, чтоб за обедом 
Хотя б на третье дождь был подан, 
Меж тем как вихрь — велосипедом 
Летал по комнатным комодам. 

Меж тем как там до потолков их 
Взлетали шелковые шторы, 
Расталкивали бестолковых 
Пруды, природа и просторы. 

Длиннейшим поездом линеек 
Позднее стягивались к валу, 
Где тень, пугавшая коней их, 
Ежевечерне оживала. 

В чулках как кровь, при паре бантов, 
По залитой зарей дороге, 
Упав, как лямки с барабана, 
Пылили дьяволовы ноги. 

Казалось, захлестав из низкой 
Листвы струей высокомерья, 
Снесла б весь мир надменность диска 
И терпит только эти перья. 

Считая ехавших, как вехи, 
Едва прикладываясь к шляпе, 
Он шел, откидываясь в смехе, 
Шагал, приятеля облапя. 

1919 

Søren Kierkegaard to Julie Thompsen – February 1847 (translated by Henric Rosenmeier)

My dear Cousin,

………………………………………

… all this may seem rather strange to you. Perhaps you are thinking as follows: “The time he uses to write a letter could just as well be used to pay a visit – and used far better.” I concede it, I concede everything, I make every concession – in order to do something, at least, and I prefer to do it in writing, for to do it in conversation would really mean defeat. The fact is that I am actually in love with the company of my pen. It might be said that this is a poor object on which to cast one’s affection. Perhaps! But is it not as though I were always content with it. Occasionally I hurl it away in anger. Alas, this very anger shows me once more that I am indeed in love with it, for the quarrel ends as lovers’ quarrels do. I confide completely in my pen, whether I become angry when it sometimes seems to me that it cannot do what I can do, cannot follow the thought that I am thinking – or whether I am surprised when it seems as if it can do what I cannot. I cannot tear myself away from the company of my pen; indeed, it prevents me from seeking the company of anybody else.

So as I sit here at home and happen to think about somebody or other who is dear to me, I think, “Now you ought to go and visit him.” But what happens? I think about it for such a long time that finally the pen (yes, for it must be the pen!) tricks its way into my hand. Instead of pay a visit in town, one more letter takes shape at home. Assisted by the pen I now converse with this person, and when I have finished, the pen actually laughs at me, for it has tricked me. By then the letter is finished, and I think to myself, “Now you must be sure to seal and send it”. What happens? Well it must be the pen that makes me believe that it can inform me perfectly well as to what impression the receipt of my letter will make on the recipient: what he will say and what I will say in my turn – what he will then say, etc. In brief, instead of sending the letter, which is burned, that letter occasions a small sketch from nature. Of course that sketch cannot be sent and accordingly it must also be burned. Once again the pen has tricked me. It tricks me out of many of the pleasures of life, and the sole comfort left is that, assisted by the pen, I am able more or less to describe how easily it has tricked me – provided that this does not have to be done on one of those days when I am quarreling with it.

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