He
replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he
did not drink.
He was afraid.
He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow
transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind.
And he was afraid.
He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives
that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle
on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in
his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he
took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think.
He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed....
(3)
He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering
interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so
vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of
these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always
alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed
along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature
of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile
pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he
seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls
and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways.
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