The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Vol. 2 [of 2]Shelley, Percy Bysshe
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The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Vol. 2 [of 2]
Shelley, Percy Bysshe
English prose literature
If any artist, I do not say had executed, but had merely conceived in
his mind the system of the sun, and the stars, and planets, they not
existing, and had painted to us in words, or upon canvas, the spectacle
now afforded by the nightly cope of heaven, and illustrated it by the
wisdom of astronomy, great would be our admiration. Or had he imagined
the scenery of this earth, the mountains, the seas, and the rivers;
the grass, and the flowers, and the variety of the forms and masses of
the leaves of the woods, and the colours which attend the setting and
the rising sun, and the hues of the atmosphere, turbid or serene, these
things not before existing, truly we should have been astonished, and
it would not have been a vain boast to have said of such a man, “Non
merita nome di creatore, se non Iddio ed il Poeta.”[10] But now these
things are looked on with little wonder, and to be conscious of them
with intense delight is esteemed to be the distinguishing mark of a
refined and extraordinary person. The multitude of men care not for
them. It is thus with Life--that which includes all.
What is life? Thoughts and feelings arise, with or without our will,
and we employ words to express them. We are born, and our birth is
unremembered, and our infancy remembered but in fragments; we live
on, and in living we lose the apprehension of life. How vain is it to
think that words can penetrate the mystery of our being! Rightly used
they may make evident our ignorance to ourselves; and this is much.
For what are we? Whence do we come? and whither do we go? Is birth the
commencement, is death the conclusion of our being? What is birth and
death?
The most refined abstractions of logic conduct to a view of life,
which, though startling to the apprehension, is, in fact, that which
the habitual sense of its repeated combinations has extinguished in us.
It strips, as it were, the painted curtain from this scene of things. I
confess that I am one of those who am unable to refuse my assent to the
conclusions of those philosophers who assert that nothing exists but as
it is perceived.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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