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There Are Certain Scenes, Certain Hills And Valleys And Groves Of Pines Which Demand That A Story Shall Be Written About Them. I Would Refine; I Would Say That The Emotions Aroused By These External Things Reverberating In The Heart Are Indeed The Story; Or All That Signifies The Story....we Translate A Hill Into A Tale, Conceive Lovers To Explain A Brook, Turn The Perfect Into The Imperfect.

-Arthur Machen

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There Are Certain Scenes,

Arthur Machen

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There Are Certain Scenes, Certain Hills And Valleys And Groves Of Pines Which Demand That A Story Shall Be Written About Them. I Would Refine; I Would Say That The Emotions Aroused By These External Things Reverberating In The Heart Are Indeed The Story; Or All That Signifies The Story....we Translate A Hill Into A Tale, Conceive Lovers To Explain A Brook, Turn The Perfect Into The Imperfect.

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For, Contrary To The Common Opinion, It Is The Wealthy Who Are Greedy Of Wealth; While The Populace Are To Be Gained By Talking To Them About Liberty, Their Unknown God. And So Much Are They Enchanted By The Words Liberty, Freedom, And Such Like, That The Wise Can Go To The Poor, Rob Them Of What Little They Have, Dismiss Them With A Hearty Kick, And Win Their Hearts And Their Votes For Ever, If Only They Will Assure Them That The Treatment Which They Have Received Is Called Liberty.

The Saint Endeavors To Recover A Gift Which He Has Lost; The Sinner Tries To Obtain Something Which Was Never His. In Brief, He Repeats The Fall.

If A Man Dreams That He Has Committed A Sin Before Which The Sun Hid His Face, It Is Often Safe To Conjecture That, In Sheer Forgetfulness, He Wore A Red Tie, Or Brown Boots With Evening Dress.

Very Softly, But Very Swiftly, Last, The Man With The Grey Face And The Staring Eyes, Bolted For His Life, Down And Away From The White House. Once In The Road, Free From The Fields And Brakes, He Changed His Run Into A Walk, And He Never Paused Or Stopped, Till He Came With A Gulp Of Relief Into The Ugly Streets Of The Big Industrial Town. He Made Hi Way To The Station At Once, And Found That He Was An Hour Too Soon For The London Express. So, There Was Plenty Of Time For Breakfast; Which Consisted Of Brandy.

It Is All Nonsense, To Be Sure; And So Much The Greater Nonsense Inasmuch As The True Interpretation Of Many Dreams - Not By Any Means Of All Dreams - Moves, It May Be Said, In The Opposite Direction To The Method Of Psycho-analysis.

Here Then Is The Pattern In My Carpet, The Sense Of The Eternal Mysteries, The Eternal Beauty Hidden Beneath The Crust Of Common And Commonplace Things; Hidden And Yet Burning And Glowing Continually If You Care To Look With Purged Eyes.

Now, Everybody, I Suppose, Is Aware That In Recent Years The Silly Business Of Divination By Dreams Has Ceased To Be A Joke And Has Become A Very Serious Science.

For, Usually And Fitly, The Presence Of An Introduction Is Held To Imply That There Is Something Of Consequence And Importance To Be Introduced.

I Dream In Fire But Work In Clay.

Silence Is Not Weakness And Decency Is Not Pride

There Are Sacraments Of Evil As Well As Of Good About Us, And We Live And Move To My Belief In An Unknown World, A Place Where There Are Caves And Shadows And Dwellers In Twilight. It Is Possible That Man May Sometimes Return On The Track Of Evolution, And It Is My Belief That An Awful Lore Is Not Yet Dead.

And There Were Other Rocks That Were Like Animals, Creeping, Horrible Animals, Putting Out Their Tongues, And Others Were Like Words I Could Not Say, And Others Like Dead People Lying On The Grass. I Went On Among Them, Though They Frightened Me, And My Heart Was Full Of Wicked Song They Put Into It; And I Wanted To Make Faces And Twist Myself About The Way They Did, And I Went On And On A Long Way Till At Last I Liked The Rocks And They Didn’t Frighten Me Any More

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There Are Certain Scenes, Certain Hills And Valleys And Groves Of Pines Which Demand That A Story Shall Be Written About Them. I Would Refine; I Would Say That The Emotions Aroused By These External Things Reverberating In The Heart Are Indeed The Story; Or All That Signifies The Story....we Translate A Hill Into A Tale, Conceive Lovers To Explain A Brook, Turn The Perfect Into The Imperfect.

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In Every Grain Of Wheat There Lies Hidden The Soul Of A Star.

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It Was Better, He Thought, To Fail In Attempting Exquisite Things Than To Succeed In The Department Of The Utterly Contemptible.

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Every Branch Of Human Knowledge, If Traced Up To Its Source And Final Principles, Vanishes Into Mystery.

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