So at last, the possibility of disaster
ceased to affright me. I had been brought off safely so many times
when destruction seemed imminent, that I grew hardened, and lay down
quietly at night, although the whim of a madman might to-morrow cast
me on the pavement. Frequently, as I have said, I could not do this,
but I strove to do it, and was able to do it when in health.
I tried to think about nothing which expressed whatever in the world
may be insoluble or simply tragic. A great change is just beginning
to come over us in this respect. So many books I find are written
which aim merely at new presentation of the hopeless. The
contradictions of fate, the darkness of death, the fleeting of man
over this brief stage of existence, whence we know not, and whither
we know not, are favourite subjects with writers who seem to think
that they are profound, because they can propose questions which
cannot be answered. There is really more strength of mind required
for resolving the commonest difficulty than is necessary for the
production of poems on these topics. The characteristic of so much
that is said and written now is melancholy; and it is melancholy, not
because of any deeper acquaintance with the secrets of man than that
which was possessed by our forefathers, but because it is easy to be
melancholy, and the time lacks strength.
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