pleadyour indulgencefor theirabsurdity.Apitcher,aharrowabandoned inafield,adogin
the sun,aneglectedcemetery,acripple,apeasant’shut–all these can become thevessel
ofmyrevelation. Each of these objectsandathousand others similar,overwhich the eye
usuallyglideswithanatural indifference, can suddenly,at anymoment (whichIamutterly
powerlesstoevoke), assume for meacharacter so exalted and movingthat words seem too
poortodescribe it.Eventhe distinct imageof anabsent object,infact,can acquire themys-
terious functionofbeingfilled to the brim with this silent but suddenlyrisingflood of di-
vine sensation. Recently,for instance,Ihad giventhe order foracopious supplyofrat-poi-
son to be scattered in the milk cellarsofone ofmydairy-farms.Towards eveningIhadgone
off foraride and, asyoucan imagine, thought no moreabout it.AsIwas trotting along
over the freshly-ploughed land, nothingmorealarminginsight thanascaredcoveyof
quail and, in the distance, the great sun sinkingoverthe undulating fields,there suddenly
loomed up beforemethe vision of that cellar,resoundingwith the death-struggle ofamob
ofrats.Ifelt everythingwithin me: the cool, musty air of the cellar filled with thesweet and
pungent reek of poison, and theyellingofthe death cries breakingagainst the moldering
walls;the vainconvulsions of those convolutedbodies as they tear about in confusion and
despair;their frenzied searchfor escape,and the grimaceoficyragewhenacouple collide
with one another atablocked-up crevice. Butwhyseek again for words whichIhavefore-
sworn!Youremember,myfriend, thewonderful description in Livy of the hours preceding
the destruction of Alba Longa:whenthe crowds strayaimlesslythrough the streets which
they aretosee no more…when they bid farewell to the stones beneath their feet.Iassure
you,myfriend,Icarried this vision within me, and the vision of burningCarthage,too; but
therewas more, somethingmoredivine, morebestial; and it was the Present,the fullest,
most exalted Present.There wasamother,surrounded by heryoung in theiragonyof
death; but hergaze was cast neither towardthedyingnor upon the merciless walls of
stone, but intothevoid, or through thevoid intoInfinity,accompanyingthis gaze with a
gnashingofteeth.–Aslavestruck with helpless terror standingnear the petrifying
Niobe must haveexperiencedwhatIexperienced when, within me, the soul of this animal
bareditsteethtoits monstrous fate.⁵³
In the most insignificant thingsthe Lordsenses the infinite:
Forgivethis description, but do not think that it was pityIfelt.For ifyoudid,myexample
would havebeen poorlychosen.Itwas far moreand far less than pity:animmense sym-
pathy,aflowingoverinto these creatures, orafeelingthat anauraof life and death, of
dream and wakefulness,had flowed foramoment intothem–but whence?Forwhat
had ittodo with pity,orwith anycomprehensible concatenation of human thought
when, on another evening,onfindingbeneathanut-treeahalf-filled pitcherwhichagar-
dener boy had left there, and the pitcher and the water in it,darkened by the shadow of the
tree, andabeetleswimmingonthe surfacefromshoretoshore, when this combination of
trifles sent through me suchashudder at the presenceofthe Infinite,ashudder running
from the roots ofmyhair to the marrow ofmyheels?What was it that made me wantto
break into words which,Iknow,wereItofind them, would forcetotheir knees those cher-
ubim in whomIdonot believe? What made me turn silentlyawayfromthis place? Even
Ibid., pp. 135–136.
26 II The Antinomy ofTruth