All men, inasmuch as they are not liberated from the bondage of time, follow
the downward path of history, whether they know it or not and whether they
like it or not. Few, indeed, thoroughly like it, even in our epoch, let
alone in happier ages, when people read less and thought more. Few follow it
unhesitatingly, without throwing at some time or other a sad glance towards
the distant lost paradise towards into which they know, in their deeper
consciousness, that they are never to peer; the paradise of perfection in
time within so remote that the earliest people of which we know remember it
as only a dream. Yet they follow their fate away; they obey their destiny.
That resigned submission to the terrible law of decay; that acceptance of
the bondage of time by creatures who dimly feel they could be free from it,
but who find it too hard to try to free themselves, who know beforehand that
they would never succeed, even if they did try, because at the bottom of
that incurable unhappiness of man the deplored again and again the Greek
tragedies, long before these were written. Man is unhappy because he knows,
because he feels, in general, that the world in which he lives, of which he
is a part, is not what it should be; not what is could be; not what, in
fact, it was at the dawn of time, before decay set in. He cannot
wholeheartedly accept the world as his, especially not accept the fact that
it is going from bad to worse (be glad). However much he may try to be a
realist, and s***** from destiny whatever he can, when he can, still an
invincible yearning for the better remains at the bottom of his heart; he
cannot, in general stomach the world as it is.
In heralding the most widespread massacre, I believe that war is preparing
mystical spheres for the apparition of great ideals. Where the charnel house
dissolves, joy will be born in from it; where the weight of mortality sinks
down, the soul's freedom will be uplifted. The greater the offering, the
greater will be the wonder and the miracle.
the downward path of history, whether they know it or not and whether they
like it or not. Few, indeed, thoroughly like it, even in our epoch, let
alone in happier ages, when people read less and thought more. Few follow it
unhesitatingly, without throwing at some time or other a sad glance towards
the distant lost paradise towards into which they know, in their deeper
consciousness, that they are never to peer; the paradise of perfection in
time within so remote that the earliest people of which we know remember it
as only a dream. Yet they follow their fate away; they obey their destiny.
That resigned submission to the terrible law of decay; that acceptance of
the bondage of time by creatures who dimly feel they could be free from it,
but who find it too hard to try to free themselves, who know beforehand that
they would never succeed, even if they did try, because at the bottom of
that incurable unhappiness of man the deplored again and again the Greek
tragedies, long before these were written. Man is unhappy because he knows,
because he feels, in general, that the world in which he lives, of which he
is a part, is not what it should be; not what is could be; not what, in
fact, it was at the dawn of time, before decay set in. He cannot
wholeheartedly accept the world as his, especially not accept the fact that
it is going from bad to worse (be glad). However much he may try to be a
realist, and s***** from destiny whatever he can, when he can, still an
invincible yearning for the better remains at the bottom of his heart; he
cannot, in general stomach the world as it is.
In heralding the most widespread massacre, I believe that war is preparing
mystical spheres for the apparition of great ideals. Where the charnel house
dissolves, joy will be born in from it; where the weight of mortality sinks
down, the soul's freedom will be uplifted. The greater the offering, the
greater will be the wonder and the miracle.