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Page 61
"It was, perhaps, a mistake to say that I would sit down and rest,
since I was never tired; and yet, without being tired, that noon-day
pause, during which I sat for an hour without moving, was strangely
grateful. All day there would be no sound, not even the rustling of a
leaf. One day, while _listening_ to the silence, it occurred to my mind
to wonder what the effect would be if I were to shout aloud. This seemed
at the time a horrible suggestion, which almost made me shudder. But
during those solitary days it was a rare thing for any thought to cross
my mind. In the state of mind I was in, thought had become impossible.
My state was one of _suspense_ and _watchfulness_; yet I had no
expectation of meeting an adventure, and felt as free from apprehension
as I feel now while sitting in a room in London. The state seemed
familiar rather than strange, and accompanied by a strong feeling of
elation; and I did not know that something had come between me and my
intellect until I returned to my former self,--to thinking, and the old
insipid existence [again]."
"I had undoubtedly _gone back_; and that state of intense watchfulness
or alertness, rather, with suspension of the higher intellectual
faculties, represented the mental state of the pure savage. He thinks
little, reasons little, having a surer guide in his [mere sensory
perceptions]. He is in perfect harmony with nature, and is nearly on a
level, mentally, with the wild animals he preys on, and which in their
turn sometimes prey on him."[O]
[O] _Op. cit._, pp. 210-222 (abridged).
For the spectator, such hours as Mr. Hudson writes of form a mere tale
of emptiness, in which nothing happens, nothing is gained, and there is
nothing to describe. They are meaningless and vacant tracts of time. To
him who feels their inner secret, they tingle with an importance that
unutterably vouches for itself. I am sorry for the boy or girl, or man
or woman, who has never been touched by the spell of this mysterious
sensorial life, with its irrationality, if so you like to call it, but
its vigilance and its supreme felicity. The holidays of life are its
most vitally significant portions, because they are, or at least should
be, covered with just this kind of magically irresponsible spell.
* * * * *
And now what is the result of all these considerations and quotations?
It is negative in one sense, but positive in another. It absolutely
forbids us to be forward in pronouncing on the meaninglessness of forms
of existence other than our own; and it commands us to tolerate,
respect, and indulge those whom we see harmlessly interested and happy
in their own ways, however unintelligible these may be to us. Hands off:
neither the whole of truth nor the whole of good is revealed to any
single observer, although each observer gains a partial superiority of
insight from the peculiar position in which he stands. Even prisons and
sick-rooms have their special revelations. It is enough to ask of each
of us that he should be faithful to his own opportunities and make the
most of his own blessings, without presuming to regulate the rest of the
vast field.
III. WHAT MAKES A LIFE SIGNIFICANT
In my previous talk, 'On a Certain Blindness,' I tried to make you feel
how soaked and shot-through life is with values and meanings which we
fail to realize because of our external and insensible point of view.
The meanings are there for the others, but they are not there for us.
There lies more than a mere interest of curious speculation in
understanding this. It has the most tremendous practical importance. I
wish that I could convince you of it as I feel it myself. It is the
basis of all our tolerance, social, religious, and political. The
forgetting of it lies at the root of every stupid and sanguinary mistake
that rulers over subject-peoples make. The first thing to learn in
intercourse with others is non-interference with their own peculiar ways
of being happy, provided those ways do not assume to interfere by
violence with ours. No one has insight into all the ideals. No one
should presume to judge them off-hand. The pretension to dogmatize about
them in each other is the root of most human injustices and cruelties,
and the trait in human character most likely to make the angels weep.
Every Jack sees in his own particular Jill charms and perfections to the
enchantment of which we stolid onlookers are stone-cold. And which has
the superior view of the absolute truth, he or we? Which has the more
vital insight into the nature of Jill's existence, as a fact? Is he in
excess, being in this matter a maniac? or are we in defect, being
victims of a pathological an�sthesia as regards Jill's magical
importance? Surely the latter; surely to Jack are the profounder truths
revealed; surely poor Jill's palpitating little life-throbs _are_ among
the wonders of creation, _are_ worthy of this sympathetic interest; and
it is to our shame that the rest of us cannot feel like Jack. For Jack
realizes Jill concretely, and we do not. He struggles toward a union
with her inner life, divining her feelings, anticipating her desires,
understanding her limits as manfully as he can, and yet inadequately,
too; for he is also afflicted with some blindness, even here. Whilst
we, dead clods that we are, do not even seek after these things, but are
contented that that portion of eternal fact named Jill should be for us
as if it were not. Jill, who knows her inner life, knows that Jack's way
of taking it--so importantly--is the true and serious way; and she
responds to the truth in him by taking him truly and seriously, too. May
the ancient blindness never wrap its clouds about either of them again!
Where would any of _us_ be, were there no one willing to know us as we
really are or ready to repay us for _our_ insight by making recognizant
return? We ought, all of us, to realize each other in this intense,
pathetic, and important way.
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