The consciousness of consciousness is the term and end of
analysis. True, but analysis pushed to extremity devours itself, like
the Egyptian serpent. We must give it some external matter to crush and
dissolve if we wish to prevent its destruction by its action upon
itself. "We are, and ought to be, obscure to ourselves," said Goethe,
"turned outward, and working upon the world which surrounds us." Outward
radiation constitutes health; a too continuous concentration upon what
is within brings us back to vacuity and blank. It is better that life
should dilate and extend itself in ever-widening circles, than that it
should be perpetually diminished and compressed by solitary contraction.
Warmth tends to make a globe out of an atom; cold, to reduce a globe to
the dimensions of an atom. Analysis has been to me self-annulling,
self-destroying.
April 23, 1862. (_Mornex sur Saleve_).--I was awakened by the twittering
of the birds at a quarter to five, and saw, as I threw open my windows,
the yellowing crescent of the moon looking in upon me, while the east
was just faintly whitening. An hour later it was delicious out of doors.
The anemones were still closed, the apple-trees in full flower:
"Ces beaux pommiers, coverts de leurs fleurs etoileens,
Neige odorante du printemps.
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