Flatland: A Romance of Many DimensionsAbbott, Edwin Abbott
Science
Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions
Abbott, Edwin Abbott
Fourth dimension
But still I could not fully understand the meaning of what my Teacher
had told me concerning “light” and “shade” and “perspective”; and I did
not hesitate to put my difficulties before him.
Were I to give the Sphere’s explanation of these matters, succinct and
clear though it was, it would be tedious to an inhabitant of Space, who
knows these things already. Suffice it, that by his lucid statements,
and by changing the position of objects and lights, and by allowing me
to feel the several objects and even his own sacred Person, he at last
made all things clear to me, so that I could now readily distinguish
between a Circle and a Sphere, a Plane Figure and a Solid.
This was the Climax, the Paradise, of my strange eventful History.
Henceforth I have to relate the story of my miserable Fall:—most
miserable, yet surely most undeserved! For why should the thirst for
knowledge be aroused, only to be disappointed and punished? My volition
shrinks from the painful task of recalling my humiliation; yet, like a
second Prometheus, I will endure this and worse, if by any means I may
arouse in the interiors of Plane and Solid Humanity a spirit of
rebellion against the Conceit which would limit our Dimensions to Two
or Three or any number short of Infinity. Away then with all personal
considerations! Let me continue to the end, as I began, without further
digressions or anticipations, pursuing the plain path of dispassionate
History. The exact facts, the exact words,—and they are burnt in upon
my brain,—shall be set down without alteration of an iota; and let my
Readers judge between me and Destiny.
The Sphere would willingly have continued his lessons by indoctrinating
me in the conformation of all regular Solids, Cylinders, Cones,
Pyramids, Pentahedrons, Hexahedrons, Dodecahedrons, and Spheres: but I
ventured to interrupt him. Not that I was wearied of knowledge. On the
contrary, I thirsted for yet deeper and fuller draughts than he was
offering to me.
“Pardon me,” said I, “O Thou Whom I must no longer address as the
Perfection of all Beauty; but let me beg thee to vouchsafe thy servant
a sight of thine interior.”
_Sphere_. My what?
_I_. Thine interior: thy stomach, thy intestines.
_Sphere_. Whence this ill-timed impertinent request? And what mean you
by saying that I am no longer the Perfection of all Beauty?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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