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The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus will be damn'd. The Bishop smiled at the quotation, but looked anxiously at his guest. Was he really taking his subliminal self's choice of date to heart? He proceeded to recount his own unfaith in thirteen's black magic, also in the traditional properties of salt and broken mirrors.
The deeper mind opens to all who knock; provided only that the new-comers be not the enemies of some stronger habit or impression already within. To suggestions which coincide with the self's desires or established beliefs it gives an easy welcome; and these, once within, always tend to self-realization.
Such a world would be but the idea of the world. But the world suffers, and suffering is the sense of the flesh of reality; it is the spirit's sense of its mass and substance; it is the self's sense of its own tangibility; it is immediate reality. Suffering is the substance of life and the root of personality, for it is only suffering that makes us persons.
You are to push back the self's barriers bit by bit, till at last all duration is included in the widening circles of its intuitive love: till you find in every manifestation of life even those which you have petulantly classified as cruel or obscene the ardent self-expression of that Immanent Being whose spark burns deep in your own soul.
The fire of God, which is his essential being, his love, his creative power, is a fire unlike its earthly symbol in this, that it is only at a distance it burns that the farther from him, it burns the worse, and that when we turn and begin to approach him, the burning begins to change to comfort, which comfort will grow to such bliss that the heart at length cries out with a gladness no other gladness can reach, 'Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire besides thee! The glory of being, the essence of life and its joy, shining upon the corrupt and deathly, must needs, like the sun, consume the dead, and send corruption down to the dust; that which it burns in the soul is not of the soul, yea, is at utter variance with it; yet so close to the soul is the foul fungous growth sprung from and subsisting upon it, that the burning of it is felt through every spiritual nerve: when the evil parasites are consumed away, that is when the man yields his self and all that self's low world, and returns to his lord and God, then that which, before, he was aware of only as burning, he will feel as love, comfort, strength an eternal, ever-growing life in him.
The one that was her baby girl, that was her tiny daughter! The one that was to be her woman treasury in which she'd pour her woman love; that was to be her self's own self, her heart's own heart, her tiny woman-bud to be a woman with her in the house of Harry and of Huggo! Her Doda! Look, there she is! There's lovely Doda! She's fourteen. It's early in 1915, in the first twelve months of the war.
There is no water here, they go to Agath to bring their water for themselves and their flocks. Of course, the complexion of these shepherdesses is quite brown or brown-black, by exposure to the weather. I shall ever remember the modest air with which a nomade young woman came and presented us with a bowl of milk. It was modesty's self's picture!
And on the other hand, such a real simplification of the self's life as is here demanded uniting on one object, the intellect, will and feeling too often split among contradictory attractions is itself productive of inner harmony and increased power: productive too of that noble endurance which counts no pain too much in the service of Reality.
There was something shameful in his flaccid idleness, in the aimlessness of his whole life now, devoid of all work, undirected towards any effort. But that was not his fault. He had worked with energy in business, with equal energy in play, worked for self's sake, for love's sake, and for country's sake.
As the restless shifting of dreams like those he had experienced in the 'tenebrous tomb' were the chaotic composite of what the true self really was, they were also his idée fixe, for as an artist he knew that the true self was the only subject worthy of his delineation, his imagining, and that being awake was merely the desperate garnering of the true self's scatterings.
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