Monday, March 18, 2013

Is Lfie Living Worth

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?[1]

When Mr. Mallocks book with this title appeared any(prenominal) fifteen years ago, the jocose answer that it depends on the _liver_ had large(p) currency in the newspapers. The answer which I propose to damp to-night cannot be jocose. In the words of one of Shakespeares prologues,--

I have it off no more to make you laugh; things now,
That bear a weighty and a serious brow,
Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,--

must(prenominal) be my theme. In the deepest heart of all of us on that point is a corner in which the ultimate mystery of things working sadly; and I know not what such an sleeper as yours intends, nor what you ask of those whom you invite to address you, unless it be to ingest you from the surface-glamour of existence, and for an hour at least to make you heedless to the bombilate and jigging and vibration of small interests and excitements that form the tissue of our ordinary consciousness. Without set ahead explanation or apology, then, I ask you to join me in turning an attention, commonly too unwilling, to the profounder bass-note of life. Let us anticipate the lonely depths for an hour together, and see what answers in the last folds and recesses of things our forefront may find.
I.

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With many men the question of lifes worth is answered by a temperamental optimism which makes them incapable of believing that anything seriously immorality can exist. Our dear old Walt Whitmans works are the standing(a) text-book of this kind of optimism. The mere joy of living is so coarse in Walt Whitmans veins that it abolishes the possibility of any other kind of skin perceptiveness:--

To breathe the air, how delicious!
To speak, to walk, to seize something by the hand!...
To be this incredible God I am!...
O confusion of things, even the least particle!
O spirituality of things!
I too carol the Sun, usherd or at noon, or as now, setting;
I too throb to the brain and mantrap of the earth and of all the
growths of the earth....
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