The essence of our time

If one seeks to grasp the essentials of our time, one is compelled, as always in such cases, to associate with every judgment its opposite. The path of truth winds up the slope like the mountain paths of a sick bag. One has to duplicate opposite after opposite to get to the top.

Time is running out with misfortune. People have to undergo suffering and sorrow to the point of death. Within that line they are spared nothing. Never have so many wandered in exile. And it is often the very elite of a people who are driven out of the country whose honor they were. Never have so many innocent men and women suffered with their lives for refusing to bow the knee to Baal. Never have so many worthy citizens been thrown into prison. Never have so many men of proven ability been squeezed into poverty and want as now.

Those who are responsible for this are hardly the heroes of joy even for the crowd that gathers around them. Their own art of living sheds no lustre on them or theirs. Those who trust to violence do so out of fear, fear of the power they seek to bring to life. They are hunted by the goddesses of vengeance.

"May earth and heaven rather collide,
Than we shall eat our bread with trembling.
And sleep strangled by the dreams of horror.
That every night shake us. Better it is
To be with the dead, those we sent
To eternal peace, than lie in torment
On the rack of the soul."

The immutable laws of life afford no protection against the powers which men themselves conjure up. The Erynnians know no mercy. A human life, ash, what does it matter! None, but from the spilled blood rises a black wolf that will never be driven away. The sun is obscured by it, and the night is filled with anguish.

It's as if the cup of life has been broken by the bitter brew of misfortune. And yet, right now, life holds more greatness than ever. The great, unimaginably great, is that so many do not bow to the dictates of power. Those whose blood seals their allegiance to the good powers of life, those who would rather leave house and home than fall away, those who defy the summons of power, all bear witness to the greatness that life nevertheless holds. It seems as if the trees of humanity were among those that blossom only in the storm. When the storm shakes its mighty crown, and rough branches are broken, then others blaze in the colour of blossom. The broken branches were rotten, though this was only now becoming apparent. Those to which life's sap rose rich and strong, they strike out in life's unfathomable beauty. They are the ones who stand against evil, they are the fleeing and the fallen, the struggling and the defiant, they are the fighters of humanity. It is the sight of them that outweighs all the misery. By their misfortune and their strife they pay the price for the preservation of humanity for mankind. Great is humanity only when the storms of misfortune drive it to flourish.

Never has the pity of humanity, its stinking meanness, made it so hard to breathe as now. Never has the greatness of man, his unseen beauty, made it so easy to breathe as now. It is a pity for the men of violence; by their deeds they deprive themselves of the ability to perceive the glory of life. They cannot rejoice in the ruby colour of warm blood; they see only the lustreless surface of life. They cannot be attributed by its hymn to life; they hear only the fall of the drops when it is poured out.

Burying the spirit has never succeeded. It breaks all the seals and overturns all the stones. It is hard to live, when the spirit-born is followed to death. It is a joy to live when the spirit-born triumphs. It never triumphs as when it is persecuted.

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