He would make us
specks in the insentient embryo of some gigantic Presence whose form is
still unimaginable and whose birth must wait for Eons and Eons. Again,
he turns to something not easily distinguishable from philosophical
idealism, whether out of Berkeley or Fichte it is hard to make out--that
is, he would interpret the whole phenomenon of life as no more than an
appearance, a nightmare of some unseen sleeper or of men themselves, an
"uncanny blur of nothingness"--in Euripides' phrase, "a song sung by an
idiot, dancing down the wind." Yet again, he talks vaguely of the
intricate polyphony of a cosmic orchestra, cacophonous to our dull ears.
Finally, he puts the observed into the ordered, reading a purpose in the
displayed event: "life was intended to sting and hurt".... But these are
only gropings, and not to be read too critically. From speculations and
explanations he always returns, Conrad-like, to the bald fact: to "the
spectacle and stress of life." All he can make out clearly is "a vast
compulsion which has nothing to do with the individual desires or tastes
or impulses of individuals.
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