What is my faith, the faith in which I die? It
is the faith of modern thought; it is the faith of
the ages. It is a spiritual Pantheism, an impassioned
Agnosticism.
* * * *
*
A Presence am I; what is my source I know not, nor
can I ever know. The moral fact I know, my will;
and I take it as I find it, and rejoice in the making
of beauty.
* * * *
*
Do I believe that I ever shall live again? I
know that I shall not. I do not insult His perfection
and my faith, with the wish that such as I should
be immortal. What I have He gave me; it is His,
and He will take it. I have no rights, and I
have no claims. I see not why He should give me
ages because He has given me an hour. He never
turns back, He never makes over again—that
I know.
* * * *
*
—And neither do I ask rewards; my life
was beautiful, I bless Him for every prayer.
I ask Him not that He cover the fair painting with
whitewash.
* * * *
*
I have no fear of Oblivion. I have no thoughts
about it. There are no thoughts in Oblivion.
The days when thou wert not, did they trouble thee?
The days when thou art not shall trouble thee as much.
* * * *
*
—I have made up my mind that I will get
some work this morning, or sell my coat, or something.
I will go out into the country, I will be alone with
Him to-night. I will fling off every chain that
has bound me. I will fling off the world, I will
fling off pain, I will fling off health. I will
say, “Burst thyself, brain! Rend thyself,
body, as thou wilt!—but I will see my God
to-night before I die!”
* * * *
*
I have been to the publishers. They gave me back
The Captive. “It is done.”
