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...viz. that the dread book of account, which the Scriptures speak of, is, in fact, the mind itself of each individual. Of this, at least, I feel assured, that there is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may, and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the mind; accidents of the same sort will also rend away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains forever; just as the stars seem to withdraw before the common light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them as a veil - and that they are awaiting to be revealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn. - Confessions of an English Opium Eater
Thomas DeQuincey [t]he sort of sound we echo with a tear,
Without knowing why...
- Don Juan, Lord Byron Canto II, 151 Her face was the same as when I saw it last, and yet again how different ! Seventeen years ago, when the lamp-light fell upon her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips (lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted), her eyes were streaming with tears: the tears were now wiped away; she seemed more beautiful than she was at that time, but in all other points the same, and not older. Her looks were tranquil, but with unusual solemnity of expression; and I now gazed upon her with some awe, but suddenly her countenance grew dim, and, turning to the mountains I perceived vapours rolling between us; in a moment all had vanished; thick darkness came on; and, in the twinkling of an eye, I was far away from mountains, and by lamp-light in Oxford-street, walking again with Ann - just as we walked seventeen years before, when we were both children. Confessions of an English Opium Eater, Thomas DeQuincey 'Ah, fair lady, why love I thee ? For thou art fairest of all others, and yet showest thou never love to me, nor bounty. Alas, yet must I love thee. And I may not blame thee, fair lady, for mine eyen be cause of this sorrow. And yet to love thee I am but a fool...' Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
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