a wave of hot air surged from the depths of the cavern. a winding path descended and turned abruptly. the group followed it, and soon arrived at the threshold of a kind of grotto, somewhat larger than the other subterranean cells.
an arched window at the back of this chamber gave directly upon a precipice, which formed a defence for one side of the castle. a honeysuckle vine, cramped by the low-studded ceiling, blossomed bravely. the sound of a running stream could be heard distinctly.
my object is to leave the previous discussion (in which i know not whether you or i are more right, but, at any rate, no clear result was attained), and to raise a new one in which i will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge.
yes, i said, critias; but you come to me as though i professed to know about the questions which i ask, and as though i could, if i only would, agree with you. whereas the fact is that i enquire with you into the truth of that which is advanced from time to time, just because i do not know; and when i have enquired, i will say whether i agree with you or not. please then to allow me time to reflect.
reflect, he said.
"i will do all my conscience will allow. perhaps this appeal for a commission covers some little dramorama, to use a word of our good bad times."
(the commission in lunacy)
i found him one day at the very end of october, with shining eyes and fingers blue with cold, putting the last of the afternoon light on the snows into one of the most dramatic hill pictures i ever knew him to do. he seemed intoxicated with his skill, and hummed the 'marseillaise,' i remember, all the way to amy villa whither i accompanied him.
it was the last day of kauffer's contract; and besides, all the world, secretaries, establishments, hill captains, grass widows, shops, and sundries, was trundling down the hill. i came to ask my young friend what he meant to do.
'do?' he cried. 'why, eat, drink, and be merry!
writing is inferior to speech.
for it is like a picture, which can give no answer to a question, and has only a deceitful likeness of a living creature. it has no power of adaptation, but uses the same words for all. it is not a legitimate son of knowledge, but a bastard, and when an attack is made upon this bastard neither parent nor anyone else is there to defend it. the husbandman will not seriously incline to sow his seed in such a hot-bed or garden of adonis; he will rather sow in the natural soil of the human soul which has depth of earth; and he will anticipate the inner growth of the mind, by writing only, if at all, as a remedy against old age. the natural process will be far nobler, and will bring forth fruit in the minds of others as well as in his own.
sunday lxxxii bis