mals follow this; the myriads of
unawakened men and women follow this; the products of this are used for
every waste and violence. Nature brings them in, and then destructive
principles play upon them. They are dealt with in great numbers, because
individuals have not emerged. They have slain them twenty thousand the
day in Europe of late--the bodies of men whose mothers in the main have
followed the blind forces of Nature, and no more. Nature will replenish
these losses.

Perceive, too: The many have not even sensed the beauties of Nature.
This physical being of ours which the Old Mother has raised from the
earth that a God might be built within it--even the beauty of this is
not yet fulfilled--much less the powers of the mind which we have
touched--much less that radiance of spirit which has made our highest
moments together so memorable.

... You would be mothers--that is the highest of the arts. The making of
books is childish and temporal compared to that. Mothering of men--that
is the highest art.... Yet we do not make books blindly. For years we
labour and watch the world; for years we gather together our thoughts
and observations of men and Nature; studiously we travel and willingly
at last we learn to suffer. Suffering brings it all home to us;
suffering connects together all our treasures, so that we see their
inter-relations and our meaning to them all. At last (and this, if we
have been called in the beginning) we dare to write our book. It fails.
Again and again we fail--that is the splendid unifying force, working
upon us. So far, we have only brought into the world our half-gods.
Failures melt us into the solution of the world.... We have learned to
welcome suffering now; we have detached ourselves from the shams that
the world can give. We have learned that the world cannot pay in kind
for any noble action--that the spirit of human hearts alone can answer
any great striving.... We go apart to the wildernesses to listen. In the
summit of our strength, the voice begins to speak--the _Guru's_ voice.

We are but instruments for the making of books. We are but listening
surfaces for the voice to play upon. At last and at best, we have merely
made ourselves fine enough to be used. Then our book is done. We have no
part in it afterward. If we have done well, the world will serve it in
God's good time.... And that is the low and the temporal art. Mere
bodies of books come into the world in thousands. They move