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sorrow of every kind。 I hated both。 I resolved to ignore them as
far as possible： to treat them； that is to say； as modes of
imperfection。 They were not part of my scheme of life。 They had
no place in my philosophy。 My mother； who knew life as a whole；
used often to quote to me Goethe's lines … written by Carlyle in a
book he had given her years ago； and translated by him； I fancy；
also：…
'Who never ate his bread in sorrow；
Who never spent the midnight hours
Weeping and waiting for the morrow； …
He knows you not； ye heavenly powers。'
They were the lines which that noble Queen of Prussia； whom
Napoleon treated with such coarse brutality； used to quote in her
humiliation and exile； they were the lines my mother often quoted
in the troubles of her later life。 I absolutely declined to accept
or admit the enormous truth hidden in them。 I could not understand
it。 I remember quite well how I used to tell her that I did not
want to eat my bread in sorrow； or to pass any night weeping and
watching for a more bitter dawn。
I had no idea that it was one of the special things that the Fates
had in store for me： that for a whole year of my life； indeed； I
was to do little else。 But so has my portion been meted out to me；
and during the last few months I have； after terrible difficulties
and struggles； been able to comprehend some of the lessons hidden
in the heart of pain。 Clergymen and people who use phrases without
wisdom sometimes talk of suffering as a mystery。 It is really a
revelation。 One discerns things one never discerned before。 One
approaches the whole of history from a different standpoint。 What
one had felt dimly； through instinct； about art； is intellectually
and emotionally realised with perfect clearness of vision and
absolute intensity of apprehension。
I now see that sorrow； being the supreme emotion of which man is
capable； is at once the type and test of all great art。 What the
artist is always looking for is the mode of existence in which soul
and body are one and indivisible： in which the outward is
expressive of the inward： in which form reveals。 Of such modes of
existence there are not a few： youth and the arts preoccupied with
youth may serve as a model for us at one moment： at another we may
like to think that； in its subtlety and sensitiveness of
impression； its suggestion of a spirit dwelling in external things
and making its raiment of earth and air； of mist and city alike；
and in its morbid sympathy of its moods； and tones； and colours；
modern landscape art is realising for us pictorially what was
realised in such plastic perfection by the Greeks。 Music； in which
all subject is absorbed in expression and cannot be separated from
it； is a complex example； and a flower or a child a simple example；
of what I mean； but sorrow is the ultimate type both in life and
art。
Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament； coarse； hard
and callous。 But behind sorrow there is always sorrow。 Pain；
unlike pleasure； wears no mask。 Truth in art is not any
correspondence between the essential idea and the accidental
existence； it is not the resemblance of shape to shadow； or of the
form mirrored in the crystal to the form itself； it is no echo
coming from a hollow hill； any more than it is a silver well of
water in the valley that shows the moon to the moon and Narcissus
to Narcissus。 Truth in art is the unity of a thing with itself：
the outward rendered expressive of the inward： the soul made
incarnate： the body instinct with spirit。 For this reason there
is no truth comparable to sorrow。 There are times when sorrow
seems to me to be the only truth。 Other things may be illusions of
the eye or the appetite； made to blind the one and cloy the other；
but out of sorrow have the worlds been built； and at the birth of a
child or a star there is pain。
More than this； there is about sorrow an intense； an extraordinary
reality。 I have said of myself that I was one who stood in
symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age。 There is not
a single wretched man in this wretched place along with me who does
not stand in symbolic relation to the very secret of life。 For the
secret of life is suffering。 It is what is hidden behind
everything。 When we begin to live； what is sweet is so sweet to
us； and what is bitter so bitter； that we inevitably direct all our
desires towards pleasures； and seek not merely for a 'month or
twain to feed on honeycomb；' but for all our years to taste no
other food； ignorant all the while that we may really be starving
the soul。
I remember talking once on this subject to one of the most
beautiful personalities I have ever known： a woman； whose sympathy
and noble kindness to me； both before and since the tragedy of my
imprisonment； have been beyond power and description； one who has
really assisted me； though she does not know it； to bear the burden
of my troubles more than any one else in the whole world has； and
all through the mere fact of her existence； through her being what
she is … partly an ideal and partly an influence： a suggestion of
what one might become as well as a real help towards becoming it； a
soul that renders the common air sweet； and makes what is spiritual
seem as simple and natural as sunlight or the sea： one for whom
beauty and sorrow walk hand in hand； and have the same message。 On
the occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how I said
to her that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane to
show that God did not love man； and that wherever there was any
sorrow； though but that of a child； in some little garden weeping
over a fault that it had or had not committed； the whole face of
creation was completely marred。 I was entirely wrong。 She told me
so； but I could not believe her。 I was not in the sphere in which
such belief was to be attained to。 Now it seems to me that love of
some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary
amount of suffering that there is in the world。 I cannot conceive
of any other explanation。 I am convinced that there is no other；
and that if the world has indeed； as I have said； been built of
sorrow； it has been built by the hands of love； because in no other
way could the soul of man； for whom the world was made； reach the
full stature of its perfection。 Pleasure for the beautiful body；
but pain for the beautiful soul。
When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too
much pride。 Far off； like a perfect pearl； one can see the city of
God。 It is so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it
in a summer's day。 And so a child could。 But with me and such as
me it is different。 One can realise a thing in a single moment；
but one loses it in the long hours that follow with leaden feet。
It is so difficult to keep 'heights that the soul is competent to
gain。' We think in eternity； but we move slowly through time； and
how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I need not tell
again； nor of the weariness and despair that creep back into one's
cell； and into the cell of one's heart； with such strange
insistence that one has； as it were； to garnish and sweep one's
house for their coming； as for an unwelcome guest； or a bitter
master； or a slave whose slave it is one's chance or choice to be。
And； though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to
believe； it is true none the less； that for them living in freedom
and idleness and comfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of
humility than it is for me； who begin the day by going down on my
knees and washing the floor of my cell。 For prison life with its
endless privations and restrictions makes one rebellious。 The most
terrible thing about it is not that it breaks one's heart … hearts
are made to be broken … but that it turns one's heart to stone。
One sometimes feels that it is only with a front of brass and a lip
of scorn that one can get through the day at all。 And he who is in
a state of rebellion cannot receive grace； to use the phrase of
which the Church is so fond … so rightly fond； I dare say … for in
life as in art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels of the
soul； and shuts out the airs of heaven。 Yet I must learn these
lessons here； if I am to learn them anywhere； and must be filled
with joy if my feet are on the right road and my face set towards
'the gate which is called beautiful；' though I may fall many times
in the mire and often in the mist go astray。
This New Life； as through my love of Dante I like sometimes to call
it； is of course no new life at all； but simply the continuance； by
means of development； and evolution； of my former life。 I remember
when I was at Oxford saying to one of my fr