That is the beginning and end, the alpha and the omega, the one absolute: the man alone by himself, alone with his own soul, alone with his eyes on the darkness which is the dark god of life. Alone like a pythoness on her tripod, like the oracle alone above the fissure into the unknown. The oracle, the fissure down into the unknown, the strange exhalations from the dark, the strange words that the oracle must utter. Strange, cruel, pregnant words: the new term of consciousness. This is the innermost symbol of man: alone in the darkness of the cavern of himself, listening to soundlessness of inflowing fate. Inflowing fate, inflowing doom, what does it matter? The man by himself--that is the absolute--listening--that is the relativity--for the influx of his fate, or doom. The man by himself. The listener. But most men can’t listen any more. The fissure is closed up. There is no soundless voice. They are deaf and dumb, ants, scurrying ants. That is their doom. It is a new kind of absolute. Like riff-raff, which has fallen out of living relativity, on to the teeming absolute of the dust-heap, or the ant-heap. Sometimes the dust-heap becomes huge, huge, huge, and covers nearly all the world. Then it turns into a volcano, and all starts again. “It has nothing to do with me,” said Richard to himself. I hope, dear reader, you like plenty of _conversation_ in a novel: it makes it so much lighter and brisker. “It has nothing to do with me,” said Richard to himself. “They do as they like. But since, after all, I _am_ a kind-hearted dear creature, I will just climb the minaret of myself and sound my muezzin.” So behold the poor dear on his pinnacle lifting his hands. “God is God and man is man; and every man by himself. Every man by himself, alone with his own soul. Alone as if he were dead. Dead to himself. He is dead and alone. He is dead; alone. His soul is alone. Alone with God, with the dark God. God is God.” But if he likes to shout muezzins, instead of hawking fried fish or newspapers or lottery tickets, let him. Poor dear, it was rather an anomalous call: “Listen to me, and be alone.” Yet he felt called upon to call it. To be alone, to be alone, and to rest on the unknown God alone. The God must be unknown. Once you have defined him or described him, he is the most chummy of pals, as you’ll know if you listen to preachers. And once you’ve chummed up with your God, you’ll never be alone again, poor you. For that’s the end of you. You and your God chumming it through time and eternity. Poor Richard saw himself in funny situations. “My dear young lady, let me entreat you, be alone, only be alone.” “Oh, Mr Somers, I should love to, if you’d hold my hand.” “There is a gulf,” growing sterner, “surrounds each solitary soul. A gulf surrounds you--a gulf surrounds me--” “_I’m falling!_” shrieks and flings her arms around his neck. Or Kangaroo.