We ask for bread, and these philosophers give us a stone.
What help could come from them: or from any one? Death is simply one of
the hard facts of life."
"And the greatest evil," she said.
"We weave our romances about the next world," he continued; "and any
one who has a fresh romance to relate, or an old one dressed up in new
language, will be listened to, and welcomed. That helps some people for
a little while; and when the charm of the romance is over, then they
are ready for another, perhaps more fantastic than the last. But the
plot is always the same: our beloved ones--shall we meet them, and how?
Isn't it pitiful? Why cannot we be more impersonal? These puny, petty
minds of ours! When will they learn to expand?"
"Why should we learn to be more impersonal?" she said. "There was a time
when I felt like that; but now I have learnt something better: that we
need not be ashamed of being human; above all, of having the best of
human instincts, love, and the passionate wish for its continuance, and
the unceasing grief at its withdrawal. There is no indignity in this;
nor any trace of weakmindedness in our restless craving to know about
the Hereafter, and the possibilities of meeting again those whom we have
lost here.
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