A literature wholesome in all respects like
thine would now be looked upon as wearisome.
"Thou smilest at my simplicity. Yes, weariness. We are corrupt; what
is to be done? I will go further, O orthodox Goddess, and confide to
you the inmost depravation of my heart. Reason and common sense are
not all-satisfying. There is poetry in the frozen Strymon and in the
intoxication of the Thracian. The time will come when thy disciples
will be regarded as the disciples of _ennui_. The world is greater
than thou dost suppose. If thou hadst seen the Polar snows and the
mysteries of the austral firmament thy forehead, O Goddess, ever so
calm, would be less serene; thy head would be larger and would embrace
more varied kinds of beauty.
"Thou art true, pure, perfect; thy marble is spotless; but the temple
of Hagia-Sophia, which is at Byzantium, also produces a divine effect
with its bricks and its plaster-work. It is the image of the vault of
heaven. It will crumble, but if thy chapel had to be large enough to
hold a large number of worshippers it would crumble also.
"A vast stream called Oblivion hurries us downward towards a nameless
abyss. Thou art the only true God, O Abyss! the tears of all nations
are true tears; the dreams of all wise men comprise a parcel of truth;
all things here below are mere symbols and dreams. The Gods pass away
like men; and it would not be well for them to be eternal. The faith
which we have felt should never be a chain, and our obligations to it
are fully discharged when we have carefully enveloped it in the purple
shroud within the folds of which slumber the Gods that are dead.
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