Welcome the passion blasts which stir the
wares of the soul, and so veil from us its bottomless gulfs! In all of
us, children of dust, sons of time, eternity inspires an involuntary
anguish, and the infinite, a mysterious terror. We seem to be entering a
kingdom of the dead. Poor heart, thy craving is for life, for love, for
illusions! And thou art right after all, for life is sacred.
In these moments of _tete-a-tete_ with the infinite, how different life
looks! How all that usually occupies and excites us becomes suddenly
puerile, frivolous and vain. We seem to ourselves mere puppets,
marionettes, strutting seriously through a fantastic show, and mistaking
gewgaws for things of great price. At such moments, how everything
becomes transformed, how everything changes! Berkeley and Fichte seem
right, Emerson too; the world is but an allegory; the idea is more real
than the fact; fairy tales, legends, are as true as natural history, and
even more true, for they are emblems of greater transparency. The only
substance properly so called is the soul. What is all the rest? Mere
shadow, pretext, figure, symbol, or dream. Consciousness alone is
immortal, positive, perfectly real. The world is but a firework, a
sublime phantasmagoria, destined to cheer and form the soul.
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