It seemed to him that he
was hearing his father's voice, speaking and ceasing to speak again.
Startled at first, he ended by finding a charm in the illusion. He
abandoned himself to the half-belief that something of his father dwelt
yet on earth--a ghostly voice, audible to the ear of his own flesh and
blood. With what strange serenity, mingled with terrors, had that man
considered the universal nothingness! He had plunged into it headlong,
perhaps to render death, the answer that faced one at every inquiry,
more supportable.
Heyst stirred, and the ghostly voice ceased; but his eyes followed the
words on the last page of the book:
Men of tormented conscience, or of a criminal imagination, are aware of
much that minds of a peaceful, resigned cast do not even suspect. It is
not poets alone who dare descend into the abyss of infernal regions, or
even who dream of such a descent. The most inexpressive of human beings
must have said to himself, at one time or another: "Anything but this!"
. . .
We all have our instants of clairvoyance. They are not very helpful.
The character of the scheme does not permit that or anything else to
be helpful. Properly speaking its character, judged by the standards
established by its victims, is infamous. It excuses every violence of
protest and at the same time never fails to crush it, just as it
crushes the blindest assent.
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