I do not, of course, mean that there are not battles,
conspiracies, tumults, factions, and all those other phenomena which
are supposed to make History interesting; nor would I deny
that the strange mixture of the problems of life and the problems
of Mathematics, continually inducing conjecture and giving
the opportunity of immediate verification, imparts to our existence
a zest which you in Spaceland can hardly comprehend. I speak now
from the aesthetic and artistic point of view when I say that life
with us is dull; aesthetically and artistically, very dull indeed.
How can it be otherwise, when all one's prospect, all one's
landscapes, historical pieces, portraits, flowers, still life,
are nothing but a single line, with no varieties except degrees of
brightness and obscurity?
It was not always thus. Colour, if Tradition speaks the truth,
once for the space of half a dozen centuries or more,
threw a transient splendour over the lives of our ancestors
in the remotest ages. Some private individual -- a Pentagon
whose name is variously reported -- having casually discovered
the constituents of the simpler colours and a rudimentary method
of painting, is said to have begun decorating first his house,
then his slaves, then his Father, his Sons, and Grandsons,
lastly himself.
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