Friday, April 6, 2012
to the housetopped philosopher
Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a
creeping, contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires,
bootblacks, beauties, hod-carriers and politicians become little
black specks dodging bigger black specks in streets no wider than
your thumb.
From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an
unintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible
perspectives; the revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth
itself a lost golf ball. All the minutiae of life are gone.
The philosopher gazes into the infinite heavens above him,
and allows his soul to expand to the influence of his new
view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and the child
of Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his immortal
heritage, and he thrills at the thought that some day his
kind shall traverse theose mysterious aerial roads between planet
and planet. The tiny world beneath his feet upon which this
towering structure of steel rests as a speck of dust upon a
Himalayan mountain--it is but one of a countless number of such
whirling atoms. What are the ambitions, the achievements, the
paltry conquests and loves of those restless black insects below
compared with the serene and awful immensity of the universe that
lies above and around their insignificant city?
It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts.
They have been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the
world and set down with the proper interrogation point at the end
of them to represent the invariable musings of deep thinkers on
high places. And when the philosopher takes the elevator down
his mind is broader, his heart is at peace, and his conception
of the cosmogony of creation is as wide as the buckle of Orion's
summer belt.
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