We return to the staid authors we read long ago, and do
not find in them the vital, speaking images that used to lie
there upon the page. Our own fancy is gone, and the author never
had any. We are driven in upon the books meant to be read.
These are books written by human beings, indeed, but with no
general quality belonging to the kind--with a special tone and
temper, rather, a spirit out of the common, touched with a light
that shines clear out of some great source of light which not
every man can uncover. We call this spirit human because it moves
us, quickens a like life in ourselves, makes us glow with a sort
of ardor of self-discovery. It touches the springs of fancy or of
action within us, and makes our own life seem more quick and
vital. We do not call every book that moves us human. Some seem
written with knowledge of the black art, set our base passions
aflame, disclose motives at which we shudder--the more because
we feel their reality and power; and we know that this is of the
devil, and not the fruitage of any quality that distinguishes us
as men. We are distinguished as men by the qualities that mark us
different from the beasts. When we call a thing human we have a
spiritual ideal in mind.
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