In my present mood of indifference and disinterestedness,
there is some secret ill-humor, some wounded pride, a little rancor;
there is selfishness in short, since a premature claim for rest is
implied in it. Absolute disinterestedness is only reached in that
perfect humility which tramples the self under foot for the glory of
God.
I have no more strength left, I wish for nothing; but that is not what
is wanted. I must wish what God wishes; I must pass from indifference to
sacrifice, and from sacrifice to self-devotion. The cup which I would
fain put away from me is the misery of living, the shame of existing and
suffering as a common creature who has missed his vocation; it is the
bitter and increasing humiliation of declining power, of growing old
under the weight of one's own disapproval, and the disappointment of
one's friends! "Wilt thou be healed?" was the text of last Sunday's
sermon. "Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will
give you rest." "And if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our
heart."
August 27, 1868.--To-day I took up the "Penseroso" [Footnote: "II
Penseroso," poesies-maximes par H. F. Amiel: Geneve, 1858. This little
book, which contains one hundred and thirty-three maxims, several of
which are quoted in the _Journal Intime_, is prefaced by a motto
translated from Shelley--"Ce n'est pas la science qui nous manque, a
nous modernes; nous l'avons surabondamment.
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