vitality which pervades great art
is not dependent upon external conditions; it has its source in the
soul of the artist. It is the immortal quality in the human spirit
playing like sunshine on the hardest and most tragic facts of
experience. It often suggests no explanation of these facts; it is
content to present them with relentless veracity; but even when it
offers no solution of the tragic problem, the tireless interest which
it feels, the force with which it illustrates and describes, the power
of moral organisation and interpretation which it reveals, carry with
them the conviction that the spirit of man, however baffled and
beaten, is superior to all the accidents of fortune, and
indestructible even within the circle of the blackest fate. As
OEdipus, old, blind, and smitten, vanishes from our sight, we think
of him no longer as a great figure blasted by adverse fate, but as a
great soul smitten and scourged, and yet still invested with the
dignity of immortality. The dramatist, even when he throws no light on
the ultimate solution of the problem with which he is dealing, feels
so deeply and freshly, and discloses such sustained strength, that the
vitality with which the facts are exhibited and the question stated
affirms its superiority over all the adversities and catastrophes of
fortune.

This freshness of feeling, which is the gift of men and women of
genius, must be possessed in some measure by all who long to get the
most out of life and to develop their own inner resources. To retain
zest in work and delight in life we must keep freshness of feeling.
Its presence lends unfailing charm to its possessor; its loss involves
loss of the deepest personal charm. It is essential in all genuine
culture, because it sustains that interest in events, experience, and
opportunity upon which growth is largely conditioned; and there is no
more effective means of preserving and developing it than intimacy
with those who have invested all life with its charm. The great books
are reservoirs of this vitality. When our own interest begins to die
and the world turns gray and old in our sight, we have only to open
Homer, Shakespeare, Browning, and the flowers bloom again and the
skies are blue; and the experiences of life, however tragic, are
matched by a vitality which is sovereign over them all.

Chapter XVI.

Liberation from One's Time.

The law of opposites under which men live is very strikingly brought
out i