Novalis Quotes

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.

Philosophy is really nostalgia, the desire to be at home.

Life must not be a novel that is given to us, but one that is made by us.

To romanticize the world is to make us aware of the magic, mystery and wonder of the world; it is to educate the senses to see the ordinary as extraordinary, the familiar as strange, the mundane as sacred, the finite as infinite.

Where are we really going? Always home.

A hero is one who knows how to hang on one minute longer.

In a work of art, chaos must shimmer through the veil of order.

Philosophy is really homesickness: the urge to be at home everywhere.

Every disease is a musical problem; every cure is a musical solution.

Shakespeare said that art is a mirror held up to nature. And that’s what it is. The nature is your nature, and all of these wonderful poetic images of mythology are referring to something in you. When your mind is trapped by the image out there so that you never make the reference to yourself, you have misread the image. The inner world is the world of your requirements and your energies and your structure and your possibilities that meets the outer world. And the outer world is the field of your incarnation. That’s where you are. You’ve got to keep both going. As Novalis said, 'The seat of the soul is there where the inner and outer worlds meet.

We are close to waking when we dream that we are dreaming.

Our life is no dream, but it should and will perhaps become one.

One should, when overwhelmed by the shadow of a giant, move aside and see if the colossal shadow isn't merely that of a pygmy blocking out the sun.

Knowledge is only one half. Faith is the other.

The artist stands on the human being as a statue does on a pedestal.

Humanity is a comic role.

Sometimes with the most intense pain a paralysis of sensibility occurs. The soul disintegrates--hence the deadly frost--the free power of the mind--the shattering, ceaseless wit of this kind of despair. There is no inclination for anything any more--the person is alone, like a baleful power--as he has no connection with the rest of the world he consumes himself gradually--and in accordance with his own principle he is--misanthropic and misotheos.

One can not understand language because language cannot understand itself; does not want to understand

Play is experimenting with chance.

And now I awaken, for I am both yours and mine.

Novalis and Dostoyevsky, awaited me just as do the mother, or the wife, the children, maids, dogs and cats in the case of more sensible people.

Oh draw at my heart, love, Draw till I'm gone, That, fallen asleep, I Still may love on. I feel the flow of Death's youth-giving flood To balsam and ether Transform my blood -- I live all the daytime In faith and in might And in holy fire I die every night.

Every individual is the center of a system of emanation.

But even more heavenly than the flashing stars are those infinite eyes which the night opens within us, and which see further even than the palest of those innumerable hosts.

To philosophize means to make vivid.

Genius in general is poetic. Where genius has been active it has been poetically active. The truly moral person is a poet.

Novels arise out of the shortcomings of history.

Love works magic. It is the final purpose of the world story, the Amen of the universe.

We dream of travels throughout the universe: is not the universe within us? We do not know the depths of our spirit. The mysterious path leads within. In us, or nowhere, lies eternity with its worlds, the past and the future.

How can a person have a sense of something if he does not have the germ of it within himself. What I am to understand must develop organically within me--and what I seem to learn is only nourishment--stimulation of the organism.

Humanity is the higher meaning of our planet, the nerve that connects this part of it with the upper world, the eye it raises to heaven.

There is an energy which springs from sickness and debility: it has a more powerful effect than the real, but, sadly, expires in an even greater infirmity.

The inner world is the world of your requirements and your energies and your structure and your possibilities that meets the outer world. And the outer world is the field of your incarnation. That’s where you are. You’ve got to keep both going. As Novalis said, "The seat of the soul is there where the inner and outer worlds meet." Joseph Campbell, 1991, The Power of Myth, pp.68-69

Light had its allotted time; but timeless and infinite is the reign of the night − the duration of sleep eternal.

Man has his being in truth--if he sacrifices truth he sacrifices himself. Whoever betrays truth betrays himself. It is not a question of lying--but of acting against one's conviction.

The world must be romanticized. Only in that way will one rediscover its original senses. Romanticization is nothing less than a qualitative raising of the power of a thing . . . I romanticize something when I give the commonplace a higher meaning, the known the dignity of the unknown, and the finite the appearance of the infinite.

Everything is seed.

Perceptibility is a kind of attentiveness.

Apparently, we go forward.

Wer Schmetterlinge lachen hört, der weiß wie Wolken schmecken.

Whoever sees life other than as a self-destroying illusion is himself still preoccupied with life. Life must not be a novel that is given to us, but one that is made by us.

What delights, what pleasures does your life offer you that outweigh the raptures of death?

The seat of the soul is where the inner world and the outer world meet. Where they overlap, it is in every point of the overlap.

The imagination places the world of the future either far above us, or far below, or in a relation of metempsychosis to ourselves. We dream of traveling through the universe—but is not the universe within ourselves? The depths of our spirit are unknown to us—the mysterious way leads inwards. Eternity with its worlds—the past and future—is in ourselves or nowhere. The external world is the world of shadows—it throws its shadow into the realm of light. At present this realm certainly seems to us so dark inside, lonely, shapeless. But how entirely different it will seem to us—when this gloom is past, and the body of shadows has moved away. We will experience greater enjoyment than ever, for our spirit has been deprived.

Who anyway can define the borderline between gnosis and poetic knowledge? The two modes are not identical, and yet they interpenetrate one another. Are we to call the gnosis of Novalis, Blake, and Shelley a knowledge that is not poetic? In domesticating the Sufis in our imagination, Corbin renders Ibn 1 Arabi and Suhrawardi as a Blakl· and a Shelley whose precursor is not Milton but the Koran.

Life is the beginning of death. Life is for the sake of death. Death is at once the end and the beginning—at once separation and closer union of the self. Through death the reduction is complete

I show that I have understood a writer only when I can act in his spirit, when, without constricting his individuality, I can translate him and change him in diverse ways.

Longing for Death Down into the womb of the earth, Out of the kingdom of light, Anger, pain, and a savage blow Signal the happy departure.

The process of history is combustion.

I stood before a mirror and said fearfully: “I want to see how I look in the mirror with my eyes closed.” These wrods of Richter’s, when I first came upon them, made an indescribable commotion in me. As did the following, which seems almost like a corollary of the above—from Novalis: The seat of the soul is where inner world and outer world touch each other. For nobody knows himself, if he is only himself and not also another one at the same time. To take possession of one’s transcendental I, to be the I of one’s I, at the same time, as Novalis expressed it again.

Our life is no dream; but it ought to become one, and perhaps will.

Many books are longer than they seem. They have indeed no end. The boredom that they cause is truly absolute and infinite.

Ohne die Träume würden wir gewiss früher alt.

Up to now our thinking was either purely mechanical - discursive - atomistic - or purely intuitive - dynamic. Perhaps now the time for union has come?

I live all the daytime In faith and in might And in holy fire I die every night.

The highest task of education is—to take command of one’s transcendental self—to be at once the I of its I. It is all the less to be wondered at that we lack complete insight and understanding for others. Without perfect self-understanding one will never learn to truly understand others.

I turn away from the light to the holy, inexpressible, mysterious night. Far away lies the world − sunk into a deep vault, its place waste and lonely. Across my heart strings a low melancholy plays. I will fall in drops of dew and merge with the ashes. Distant memories, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a long life – all arise dressed in grey, like evening mist after sunset. In other lands light has pitched its merry tents. And if it never returned to its children, who would await its dawning with the innocence of faith?

Die Welt muß romantisiert werden. So findet man den ursprünglichen Sinn wieder. Romantisieren ist nichts, als eine qualitative Potenzierung. Das niedre Selbst wird mit einem bessern Selbst in dieser Operation identifiziert. (…) Indem ich dem Gemeinen einen hohen Sinn, dem Gewöhnlichen ein geheimnisvolles Ansehn, dem Bekannten die Würde des Unbekannten, dem Endlichen einen unendlichen Schein gebe so romantisiere ich es.

For the tragedy of our lives is not created entirely from within. "Character," says Novalis, in one of his questionable aphorisms,–"character is destiny." But not the whole of our destiny.

When one begins to reflect on philosophy—then philosophy seems to us to be everything, like God, and love. It is a mystical, highly potent, penetrating idea—which ceaselessly drives us inward in all directions. The decision to do philosophy—to seek philosophy is the act of self-liberation—the thrust toward ourselves.

he who has tasted it, who has stood at the watershed of this world and looked across into the new land, into the dwelling of the night − truly, he will never return to the labours of the world, to the land where the light is housed in ceaseless unrest.

The most intimate community of all knowledge—the republic of learning is the high purpose of scholars.

Our body is a moulded river

The greatest of sorcerers would be the one who would cast a spell on himself to the degree of taking his own phantasmagoria for autonomous apparitions. Might that not be our case?

There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely coincide.

The more narrow-minded a system is the more it will please worldly-wise people. Thus the system of the materialists, the doctrine of Helvetius and also Locke has recieved the most acclaim amongst his class. Thus Kant even now will find more followers than Fichte.

From the most ancient days of China to the myths of the Greeks we find the concept of an ideal, heavenly life for men under the hegemony of music. The Glass Bead Game is intimately bound up with this cult of music (“in eternal transmutations the secret power of song greets us here below,” says Novalis).

Life is the beginning of death. Life is for the sake of death. Death is at once the end and the beginning—at once separation and closer union of the self. Through death the reduction is complete.

Flight from the communal spirit is death!

True anarchy is the generative element of religion. Out of the annihilation of all existing institutions she raises her glorious head, as the new foundress of the world.

الفلسفةُ حنينٌ إلى الوطن ، ونزعةٌ إلى أن نكون في كلّ مكانٍ ، كما لو في البيت.

Holy sleep, do not so seldom bring happiness to the night’s beloved in this earthly labour of the day.

اننا نكون قد قاربنا ان نستفيق حين نحلم اننا نحلم

We may see very clearly how the wrong sound, or “anti-music,” is pathogenic and migrainogenic; while the right sound—proper music—is truly tranquillising, and immediately restores cerebral health. These effects are striking, and quite fundamental, and put one in mind of Novalis’s aphorism: “Every disease is a musical problem; every cure is a musical solution.

The world must be romanticized. In this way its original meaning will be rediscovered. Romanticization is nothing but a qualitative realization of potential. The lower self is identified, in this operation, with a better self. As we are ourselves are such a qualitative series of empowerings. This operation is as yet quite unknown. Insofar as I give a higher meaning to what is commonplace, and a mysterious appearance to what is ordinary, the dignity of the unknown to what is known, a semblance of infinity to what is finite, I romanticize it.

What is it that wells up so suddenly and menacingly under my heart, swallowing the soft air of melancholy? Are you pleased with us, dark night? What is it you conceal under your mantle, that grabs invisibly and powerfully at my soul? A rich balm drips off your fingers from a bundle of poppies. You raise up the heavy wings of the soul – darkly and inexpressibly we are moved. I see an earnest face startled with joy – softly and reverently it inclines toward me, and under endlessly entangled locks appears the cherished face of our Mother. How poor and childish the light seems to me now − how welcome and blessed is the day’s departure.

While the poets were above all interested in the fluid and fugitive aspects of Nature, others desired, by slogging away with a hatchet and pickax, to discover the interior structure of Nature and the relationship between the separate morsels. The spirit of our friend Nature dissolved in their hands, leaving nothing but throbbing or dead parts.

Sacrifice of the self is the source of all humiliation, as also on the contrary is the foundation of all true exaltation. The first step will be an inward gaze—an isolating contemplation of ourselves. Whoever stops here has come only halfway. The second step must be an active outward gaze—autonomous, constant observation of the external world. No one will ever achieve excellence as an artist who cannot depict anything other than his own experiences, his favorite objects, who cannot bring himself to study assiduously even a quite strange object, which does not interest him at all, and to depict it at leisure. An artist must be able and willing to depict everything. This is how a great artistic style is created, which rightly is so much admired in Goethe.

What is nature? An encyclopedic systematic index or plan of our spirit. Why should we be content with the mere catalogue of our treasures—let us examine them for ourselves—and work with them and use them in diverse ways.

The fate which oppresses us is the inertia of our spirit. Through extending and cultivating our activity we shall transform ourselves into fate. Everything seems to stream inward into us, because we do not stream outward. We are negative because we want to be—the more positive we become, the more negative will the world around us become—until at last there will be no more negation—but instead we are all in all. God wants there to be gods.

„Да станеш човек е изкуство.

Though the heroes and their fates are inventions, yet the spirit in which they are composed is true and natural.

There is more truth in their romances than in learned chronicles.

Novels arise out of the shortcoings of history.

Yimello,' said Bernard finally, breaking the silence. 'Gesundheit?' I asked. 'It's a name for one of the colors that's invisible to us. Yimello," said Bernard. "There could also be glowl and novaly and replitz." 'Yes.' I nodded, stunned the kid could actually string together so many words at once. 'And, uh, don't forget the beautiful grynn, the luminous dulloff, or the subtle winooze.' Bernard's face lit up. He stood and started pacing the room, speaking quickly. 'Or salty, and insomnia, and carefree, and talkative, and lonely, and burnt, and punctual.' 'Some of my favorite colors,' I agreed, nodding. 'We could paint this room whisper. Or zigzag. Or maybe a nice shade of ignored and invisible.

All the chance events of our lives are materials from which we can make what we like. Whoever is rich in spirit makes much of his life. Every acquaintance, every incident would be for the thoroughly spiritual person—the first element in an endless series—the beginning of an endless novel.

Is not our body in itself nothing but a common central effect of our senses—if we have mastery over our senses—if we are able to transform them into activity at will—to center them at a common point, then it only depends on us—to give ourselves the body we want. Indeed, in our senses are nothing other than modifications of the mental organ—of the absolute element—then with mastery over this element we shall also be able to modify and direct our senses as we please.

Everything that we experience is a communication. In fact, so is the world too a communication -- the revelation of spirit. The time is gone when the spirit of God was comprehensible to us. The meaning of the world has been lost to us. We have seen only its letters. We have lost that which is appearing behind the appearance.

Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world -- sunk in a deep grave -- waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. -- The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?

That which the external world perceives as quite motionless has the appearance of being quite at rest. However much it may change, in relation to the external world it always stays at rest. This principle governs all self-modifications. That is why the beautiful appears so much at rest. Everything beautiful is a self-illuminated, perfect individual.

Sonechka, meanwhile, placid soul that she was—cocooned by the thousand volumes of her reading, lulled by the hazy murmurings of the Greek myths, the hypnotically shrill recorder fluting of the Middle Ages, the misty windswept yearning of Ibsen, the minutely detailed tedium of Balzac, the astral music of Dante, the siren song of the piercing voices of Rilke and Novalis, seduced by the moralistic despair of the great Russian writers calling out to the heart of heaven itself—this placid soul had no awareness that her great moment was at hand.

Only fools fail to recognize you, knowing no sleep but the shadow which you, taking pity, cast over us in the twilight before true night. They do not taste you in the golden flood of grapes, in the magic oil of the almond tree and the brown juice of the poppy. They do not know that it is you who hovers over a tender maiden’s bosom, making a heaven of her lap − never suspect that it is you who comes to them out of old stories, opening the doors to heaven and carrying the key to the dwellings of the blessed, a silent messenger of infinite mysteries.

In most religious systems we are regarded as parts of the godhead which, if they do not obey the impulses of the whole, and even if they do not intentionally act against the laws of the whole, but only go their own way and do not want to be parts of it, are medically treated by the godhead—and either endure a painful cure or even are cut off.

The letter is only an aid to philosophical communication, the actual essence of which consists in arousing a particular train of thought. Someone speaking thinks and produces—someone listening reflects—and reproduces. Words are a deceptive medium for what is already though—unreliable vehicles of a particular, specific stimulus. The true teacher is a guide. If the pupil genuinely desires truth it requires only a hint to show him how to find what he is seeking. Accordingly the representation of philosophy consists purely of themes—of initial propositions—principles. It exists only for autonomous lovers of truth. The analytical exposition of the theme is only for those who are sluggish or unpracticed. The latter must learn thereby how to fly and keep themselves moving in a particular direction. Attentiveness is a centripetal force. The effective relation between that which is directed and the object of direction begins with the given direction. If we hold fast to this direction we are apodictically certain of reaching the goal that has been set. True collaboration in philosophy then is a common movement toward a beloved world—whereby we relieve each other in the most advanced outpost, a movement that demands the greatest effort against the resisting element within which we are flying.

The true reader must be an extension of the author. He is the higher court that receives the case already prepared by the lower court. The feeling by means of which the author has separated out the materials of his work, during reading separates out again the unformed and the formed aspects of the book—and if the reader were to work through the book according to his own idea, a second reader would refine it still more, with the result that, since the mass that had been worked through would constantly be poured into fresh vessels, the mass would finally become an essential component—a part of the active spirit. Through impartial rereading of his book the author can refine his book himself. With strangers the particular character is usually lost, because the talent of fully entering into another person’s idea is so rare. Often even in the author himself. It is not a sign of superior education and greater powers to justifiably find fault with a book. When receiving new impressions, greater sharpness of mind is quite natural.

Dünya uzaklarda - derin bir mezara indirilmiş-, yeri, bir çöl gibi ve yapayalnız. Göğsünün tellerinden derin bir hüznün esintileri yükselmekte. Çiğ taneleriyle birlikte ta aşağılara damlamak ve küllere karışmak istiyorum. -Anıların uzaklığı, gençliğin arzuları, çocukluktaki düşler, bütün bir yaşamın kısacık sevinçleri ve nafile umutları, güneşin ardından etrafı saran akşam sisi gibi, sırtlarında kurşuni giysilerle gelmekteler. Başka yerlerde ışık, neşeli çadırlarını kurmuş. Ya onu masumiyetin inancıyla beklemekte olan çocuklarına bir daha hiç dönmezse?

Ich sehe die Szene schon vor mir, wie ich oben ankomme, mit dem Typ, der meinen Namen auf der Liste sucht und nicht findet. "Wie heißen Sie nochmal?" "Novecento." "Nosjinskij, Notarbartolo, Novalis, Nozza..." "Es ist nämlich so, daß ich auf einem Schiff geboren bin." "Wie bitte?" "Ich bin aif einem Schiff geboren und da auch gestorben, ich weiß nicht, ob das da aus der Liste hervorgeht..." "Schiffbruch?" "Nein. Explodiert. Dreizehn Zentner Dynamit. Bum." "Aha. Ist soweit alles in Ordnung?" "Ja, ja, bestens... das heißt... da ist noch die Sache mit dem Arm... ein Arm ist weg... aber man hat mir versichert..." "Ein Arm fehlt ihnen?" "Ja. Wissen Sie, bei de Explosion..." "Da müßte noch ein Paar liegen... welcher fehlt Ihnen denn?" "Der linke." "Ach herrje." "Was soll das heißen?" "Ich fürchte, es sind zwei rechte, wissen Sie." "Zwei rechte Arme?" "Tja. Unter Umständen können Sie Schwierigkeiten haben,..." "Ja?" "Ich meine, wenn Sie einen rechten Arm nehmen würden..." "Einen rechten Arm anstelle des linken?" "Ja." "Aber... nein, oder doch,... lieber einen rechten als gar keinen..." "Das meine ich auch. Warten Sie einen Moment, ich hole ihn." "Ich komme am besten in ein paar Tagen wieder vorbei, dann haben Sie vielleicht einen linken da..." "Also, ich habe hier einen weißen und einen schwarzen..." "Nein, nein, einfarbig... nichts gegen Schwarze, hm, es ist nur eine Frage der..." Pech gehabt. Eine ganze Ewigkeit im Paradies mit zwei rechten Armen. (Näselnd gesprochen.) Und jetzt schlagen wir ein schönes Kreuz! (Er setzt zu dieser Geste an, hält aber inne. Er betrachtet seine Hände.) Nie weiß man, welche man nehmen soll. (Er zögert einen Augenblick, dann bekreuzigt er sich schnell mit beiden Händen.) Sich eine ganze ewigkeit, Millionen Jahre, zum Affen machen. (Wieder schlägt er mit beiden Händen ein Kreuz.) Die Hölle. Da gibt's nichts zu lachen. (Er dreht sich um, geht auf die Kulissen zu, bliebt einen Schritt vor dem Abgang stehen, dreht sich erneut zum Publikum, und seine Augen leuchten.) Andererseits... du weißt ja, daß Musik... mit diesen Händen, mit zwei rechten... wenn da nur ein Klavier ist...

Almost all genius up to now was one-sided—the result of a sickly constitution. One type had too much sense of the external, the other too much inner sense. Seldom could nature achieve a balance between the two—a complete constitution of genius. Often a perfect proportion arose by chance, but this could never endure because it was not comprehended and fixed by the spirit—they remained fortunate moments. The first genius that penetrated itself found here the exemplary germ of an immeasurable world. It made a discovery which must have been the most remarkable in the history of the world—for with it there begins a whole new epoch for humanity—and true history of all kinds becomes possible for the first time at this stage—for the way that had been traversed hitherto now makes up a proper whole that can be entirely elucidated. That point outside the world is given, and now Archimedes can fulfill his promise.

In ultima perioadă a vieţii, Gogol a fost cuprins de remuşcări: personajele sale, credea el, nu erau decat viciu, vulgaritate, gunoi. Trebuia să aibă grijă să le dăruiască şi virtuţi, să le smulgă din noroiul lor. Şi astfel scrise partea a doua a Sufletelor moarte; din fericire, a pus-o pe foc. Nu exista «salvare» pentru eroii săi. Unii au pus gestul pe seama nebuniei, cînd, de fapt, îşi avea obîrşia în scrupulele conştiinţei sale de artist: scriitorul l-a învins pe profet. Ne plac la el cruzimea, dispreţul faţă de oameni, viziunea unei lumi osîndite; cum să fi suportat o caricatură moralizatoare? Pierdere ireparabilă, spun unii; pierdere salutară, mai curînd. In ultima sa perioadă, Gogol mai păstrează o forţă obscură pe care însă nu ştie s-o folosească; se prăbuşeşte într-o letargie străbătută cînd şi cînd de tresăriri; tresăririle unei fantome. Umorul ce-i îngăduia să-şi stăpînească «accesele de spaimă» dispare. O jalnică perioadă începe. Prietenii îl părăsesc. Face un gest necugetat: publică Pagini alese din corespondenţa cu prietenii, care au fost, o recunoaşte chiar el, o «palmă pentru public, o palmă pentru prieteni, o palmă pentru mine». Slavofili şi prooccidentali îl reneagă deopotrivă. Cartea era o apologie a puterii, un delir reacţionar. Spre nenorocirea lui, Gogol s-a legat de un anume părinte Matvei, nesimţitor la artă, mărginit, agresiv, şi care a avut asupra lui o autoritate de duhovnic, de călău. Scrisorile primite de la acesta le purta asupra sa în permanenţă, le citea şi le răscitea; cură de stupiditate, de idioţie. Cînd talentul unui scriitor se epuizează, inepţiile unui duhovnic umplu golul inspiraţiei. Influenţa părintelui Matvei asupra lui Gogol a fost mai mare decît a lui Puşkin; acesta îi încuraja geniul; al doilea se străduia să-i înăbuşe orice rămăşiţă de geniu... Neajungîndu-i predicile, Gogol a simţit nevoia să se pedepsească şi mai mult; opera lui conferea farsei, grimasei un sens universal; frămîntările sale religioase nu puteau rămîne străine de asta. Unii ar putea susţine că Gogol îşi merita încercările, că prin ele îşi ispăşea cutezanţa de-a fi schimonosit chipul omului. Adevărat îmi pare mai curînd contrariul; trebuia să plătească pentru că avusese dreptate: în materie de artă, ne ispăşim nu greşelile, ci «adevărurile», realitatea pe care am surprins-o. Personajele sale îl urmăreau. După propria-i mărturisire, îi purta neîncetat în el pe Klestakovi şi Cicikovi: subumanitatea lor îl strivea. Nu-l salvase pe niciunul; ca artist, nici nu ar fi putut s-o facă. Apoi, pierzandu-şi geniul, a vrut să se mîntuiască măcar. Eroii săi l-au împiedicat. De aceea, contrar voinţei sale, a trebuit să rămînă credincios neantului din ei. Ajunşi aici, nu ne gîndim la Regent (despre care Saint-Simon scria că «se născuse plictisit»), nici la Baudelaire ori la Ecclesiast, ci la o fiinţă ce şi-ar întoarce rugăciunile împotriva ei înseşi, în această fază, plictisul dobandeşte un soi de demnitate mistică. «Orice senzaţie absolută, spune Novalis, este religioasă.» La Gogol, plictisul s-a substituit, cu timpul, credinţei, devenind pentru el senzaţie absolută, religie.

It is the most capricious prejudice to believe that a human being is denied the capacity to be outside himself, to be consciously beyond the senses. He is capable at any moment of being a suprasensual being. Without this he would not be a citizen of the world—he would be an animal. It is true that under these circumstances reflection, the discovery of oneself—is very difficult, since they are so ceaselessly, so necessarily connected with the change in our other circumstances. But the more conscious of these circumstances we can be, the more lively, powerful, and ample is the conviction which derives from them—the belief in true revelations of the spirit. It is not seeing—hearing—feeling—it is a combination of all three—more than all three—a sensation of immediate certainty—a view of my truest, most actual life—thoughts change into laws—wishes are fulfilled. For the weak person the fact of this moment is an article of faith. The phenomenon becomes especially striking at the sight of many human forms and faces—particularly so on catching sight of many eyes, expressions, movements—on hearing certain words, reading certain passages—at certain views of life, world, and fate. Very many chance incidents, many natural events, particular times of the day and year bring us such experiences. Certain moods are especially favorable to such revelations. Most last only an instant—few linger—fewest of all remain. In this respect there are great differences between people. One is more capable of experiencing revelations than another. One has more sense of them, the other more understanding. The latter kind will always remain in their soft light; even if the former has only intermittent flashes of illumination, they are brighter and more varied. This capacity is also susceptible to illness, which signifies either excessive sense and deficient understanding—or excessive understanding and deficient sense.