Sirius himself was no exception, of course. Everything was made so that it had to torture something else. “But what a universe, anyhow! No use blaming human-beings for what they were. For we shall make after all a fair conclusion to this brief music that is man.” And so we may go forward together with laughter in our hearts, and peace, thankful for the past, and for our own courage. Man himself in his degree is eternally a beauty in the eternal form of things. Man himself, at the very least, is music, a brave theme that makes music also of its vast accompaniment, its matrix of storms and stars. Inevitably so, for if it exists, it is not for him in his littleness. Yet he can never be sure that he has truly heard it, nor even that there is any such perfect music at all to be heard. “Is the beauty of the Whole really enhanced by our agony? And is the Whole really beautiful? And what is beauty? Throughout all his existence man has been striving to hear the music of the spheres, and has seemed to himself once and again to catch some phrase of it, or even a hint of the whole form of it.
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