The Black Obelisk

So it can be done, I think. One can transform chaos!

For the first time I feel the wine; I feel it is good, self-contained, mature, and not unsettled. It no longer has chaos in it, I think. It has transformed chaos, transformed it into harmony. But transformed it, not replaced it. It has not disappeared.

God is love. Which of us can fathom His judgment?”

“Does He judge?”

“We call it so. It is love.”

“Love,” I say bitterly. “A love full of sadism. A love that torments people and makes them miserable and pretends to compensate for the horrible injustice of this world by the promise of an imaginary heaven.”

“You ought to learn. Food and drink are gifts of God. They should be enjoyed and understood.”

“Death is surely a gift of God also,” I reply, glancing through the window into the dark garden. It has grown windy and the black treetops are tossing. “Ought one to enjoy and understand it too?”

Loneliness has nothing to do with a lack of company.

Man is not only an eternal swindler but also eternally credulous; he believes in the good, the beautiful, and the perfect even when they are not to be found or only in very rudimentary form—and that is the second reason why I find reading the death notices uplifting and why it makes me an optimist.

The highest virtues are to be found in abundance, sincere concern, profound piety, selfless devotion; even the survivors know what parts to play—they are bowed with grief, their loss is irreparable, they will never forget the dear departed—it is elevating to read all this, and one can feel proud to belong to a race possessed of such noble feelings.

the earth seems to have been populated by a horde of wingless angels without one’s having been aware of it.

High society often behaves more vulgarly than a horse butcher.”

Our mistake is that we are neither dumb nor clever. Always betwixt and between like monkeys in the branches. That makes us weary and sometimes sad. Man needs to know where he belongs.