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? ? ? ? 'I read more than that,' I continued boldly.

? ? ? ? 'Then you read consciousness. You read the consciousness of life that it is alive; but still, no further away, no endlessness of life.'

? ? ? ? How clearly he thought, and how well he expressed what he thought! From regarding me curiously, he turned his head and glanced out over the leaden sea to windward. A bleakness came into his eyes, and the lines of his mouth grew severe and harsh. He was evidently in a pessimistic mood.

? ? ? ? 'Then, to what end?' he demanded abruptly, turning back to me. 'If I am immortal, why?'

? ? ? ? I halted. How could I explain my idealism to this man? How could I put into speech a something felt, a something like the strains of music heard in sleep, a something that convinced, yet transcended utterance?

? ? ? ? 'What do you believe, then?' I countered.

? ? ? ? 'I believe that life is a mess,' he answered promptly. 'It is like yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves, and may move for a minute, an hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to move.


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