A man’s liberty is that area of his life in which his individuality moves freely. It is finite, unless we speak mystically of his union with the Infinite. In all other sense, political or personal, objective or subjective, his liberty is restricted, is defined and secured by its restrictions, and is not to be thought of except in terms of them. As a room is not a room that has no walls, so liberty is not liberty that has no boundaries. It is an area, not space. IT’s value, just like a room, does not depend on its size only. It depends on its interior beauty, its proportion, its light and warmth, its outlook, the use that is made of it; on its quiet sometimes, and sometimes on the company received there; always on a man’s knowledge that it is his, and that, when he goes out, it will await his coming back. The room has this special quality: that it is not his residence only, but his home. Drive him from it, surrender it to the habitation of alien spirits, and he is homeless one, a wandered in the desert of existence, where the shapes of loneliness pursue him by day and by night, and his breath is fear. The room is his home, where love nourished and experience taught him, where he is capable of innocence and renewal; it is the origin of his courage to issue out, the hope of his return and his redemption. This room looks for its glory to three things: his vision and its ghosts; his sense of peace in it; his assurance that it is not a prison. It is not liberty to dwell in terror of being invaded. It is no liberty to ring for a banquet if it be a jailer who carries in the tray. But it is liberty to know oneself; and by transcendence of knowledge to be oneself; and by penetration of being to lose oneself; and, in losing, find.
Posted on: Wed, 03 Sep 2014 16:50:42 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015