[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.It is enough for them (the undersigned persons) if they are able to pursue their own peculiar and profitable theme–which is puddles.What (the undersigned persons ask themselves) is a puddle? A puddle repeats infinity, and is full of light; nevertheless, if analyzed objectively, a puddle is a piece of dirty water spread very thin on mud.The two great historic universities of England have all this large and level and reflective brilliance.Nevertheless, or, rather, on the other hand, they are puddles–puddles, puddles, puddles, puddles.The undersigned persons ask you to excuse an emphasis inseparable from strong conviction.”Inglewood ignored a somewhat wild expression on the faces of some present, and continued with eminent cheerfulness:–“Such were the thoughts that failed to cross the mind of the undergraduate Smith as he picked his way among the stripes of canal and the glittering rainy gutters into which the water broke up round the back of Brakespeare College.Had these thoughts crossed his mind he would have been much happier than he was.Unfortunately he did not know that his puzzles were puddles.He did not know that the academic mind reflects infinity and is full of light by the simple process of being shallow and standing still.In his case, therefore, there was something solemn, and even evil about the infinity implied.It was half-way through a starry night of bewildering brilliancy; stars were both above and below.To young Smith’s sullen fancy the skies below seemed even hollower than the skies above; he had a horrible idea that if he counted the stars he would find one too many in the pool.“In crossing the little paths and bridges he felt like one stepping on the black and slender ribs of some cosmic Eiffel Tower.For to him, and nearly all the educated youth of that epoch, the stars were cruel things.Though they glowed in the great dome every night, they were an enormous and ugly secret; they uncovered the nakedness of nature; they were a glimpse of the iron wheels and pulleys behind the scenes.For the young men of that sad time thought that the god always comes from the machine.They did not know that in reality the machine only comes from the god.IN short, they were all pessimists, and starlight was atrocious to them– atrocious because it was true.All their universe was black with white spots.“Smith looked up with relief from the glittering pools below to the glittering skies and the great black bulk of the college.The only light other than stars glowed through one peacock-green curtain in the upper part of the building, marking where Dr.Emerson Eames always worked till morning and received his friends and favourite pupils at any hour of the night.Indeed, it was to his rooms that the melancholy Smith was bound.Smith had been at Dr.Eames’s lecture for the first half of the morning, and at pistol practice and fencing in a saloon for the second half.He had been sculling madly for the first half of the afternoon and thinking idly (and still more madly) for the second half.He had gone to a supper where he was uproarious, and on to a debating club where he was perfectly insufferable, and the melancholy Smith was melancholy still.Then, as he was going home to his diggings he remembered the eccentricity of his friend and master, the Warden of Brakespeare, and resolved desperately to turn in to that gentleman’s private house.“Emerson Eames was an eccentric in many ways, but his throne in philosophy and metaphysics was of international eminence; the university could hardly have afforded to lose him, and, moreover, a don has only to continue any of his bad habits long enough to make them a part of the British Constitution.The bad habits of Emerson Eames were to sit up all night and to be a student of Schopenhauer.Personally, he was a lean, lounging sort of man, with a blond pointed beard, not so very much older than his pupil Smith in the matter of mere years, but older by centuries in the two essential respects of having a European reputation and a bald head.“‘I came, against the rules, at this unearthly hour,’ said Smith, who was nothing to the eye except a very big man trying to make himself small, ‘because I am coming to the conclusion that existence is really too rotten.I know all the arguments of the thinkers that think otherwise–bishops, and agnostics, and those sort of people.And knowing you were the greatest living authority on the pessimist thinkers–’“‘All thinkers,’ said Eames, ‘are pessimist thinkers [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl milosnikstop.keep.pl
.It is enough for them (the undersigned persons) if they are able to pursue their own peculiar and profitable theme–which is puddles.What (the undersigned persons ask themselves) is a puddle? A puddle repeats infinity, and is full of light; nevertheless, if analyzed objectively, a puddle is a piece of dirty water spread very thin on mud.The two great historic universities of England have all this large and level and reflective brilliance.Nevertheless, or, rather, on the other hand, they are puddles–puddles, puddles, puddles, puddles.The undersigned persons ask you to excuse an emphasis inseparable from strong conviction.”Inglewood ignored a somewhat wild expression on the faces of some present, and continued with eminent cheerfulness:–“Such were the thoughts that failed to cross the mind of the undergraduate Smith as he picked his way among the stripes of canal and the glittering rainy gutters into which the water broke up round the back of Brakespeare College.Had these thoughts crossed his mind he would have been much happier than he was.Unfortunately he did not know that his puzzles were puddles.He did not know that the academic mind reflects infinity and is full of light by the simple process of being shallow and standing still.In his case, therefore, there was something solemn, and even evil about the infinity implied.It was half-way through a starry night of bewildering brilliancy; stars were both above and below.To young Smith’s sullen fancy the skies below seemed even hollower than the skies above; he had a horrible idea that if he counted the stars he would find one too many in the pool.“In crossing the little paths and bridges he felt like one stepping on the black and slender ribs of some cosmic Eiffel Tower.For to him, and nearly all the educated youth of that epoch, the stars were cruel things.Though they glowed in the great dome every night, they were an enormous and ugly secret; they uncovered the nakedness of nature; they were a glimpse of the iron wheels and pulleys behind the scenes.For the young men of that sad time thought that the god always comes from the machine.They did not know that in reality the machine only comes from the god.IN short, they were all pessimists, and starlight was atrocious to them– atrocious because it was true.All their universe was black with white spots.“Smith looked up with relief from the glittering pools below to the glittering skies and the great black bulk of the college.The only light other than stars glowed through one peacock-green curtain in the upper part of the building, marking where Dr.Emerson Eames always worked till morning and received his friends and favourite pupils at any hour of the night.Indeed, it was to his rooms that the melancholy Smith was bound.Smith had been at Dr.Eames’s lecture for the first half of the morning, and at pistol practice and fencing in a saloon for the second half.He had been sculling madly for the first half of the afternoon and thinking idly (and still more madly) for the second half.He had gone to a supper where he was uproarious, and on to a debating club where he was perfectly insufferable, and the melancholy Smith was melancholy still.Then, as he was going home to his diggings he remembered the eccentricity of his friend and master, the Warden of Brakespeare, and resolved desperately to turn in to that gentleman’s private house.“Emerson Eames was an eccentric in many ways, but his throne in philosophy and metaphysics was of international eminence; the university could hardly have afforded to lose him, and, moreover, a don has only to continue any of his bad habits long enough to make them a part of the British Constitution.The bad habits of Emerson Eames were to sit up all night and to be a student of Schopenhauer.Personally, he was a lean, lounging sort of man, with a blond pointed beard, not so very much older than his pupil Smith in the matter of mere years, but older by centuries in the two essential respects of having a European reputation and a bald head.“‘I came, against the rules, at this unearthly hour,’ said Smith, who was nothing to the eye except a very big man trying to make himself small, ‘because I am coming to the conclusion that existence is really too rotten.I know all the arguments of the thinkers that think otherwise–bishops, and agnostics, and those sort of people.And knowing you were the greatest living authority on the pessimist thinkers–’“‘All thinkers,’ said Eames, ‘are pessimist thinkers [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]