Chapter XXXIV

His own dim consciousness should teach him thus much, that Life will never be extinguished. Else all here is but dust and ashes. The earth, "this round of green," and sun, "this orb of flame," are but "fantastic beauty"--such as a wild Poet might invent, who has neither conscience nor aim.

Even God can be nothing to the writer, if all around him is doomed to perish; and he will not himself wait in patience, but rather "sink to peace;" and, like the birds that are charmed by the serpent[25] into its mouth, he will "drop head-foremost in the jaws of vacant darkness," and so cease to exist.