翡冷翠日记|徐志摩

翡冷翠日记

　　（四页）

　　Florentine Journals

　　Solitude to the creative mind is like spring breeze to the unmanifested world of color and beauty; substance they both have not, yet they carry with them, each in its own way, the most compelling force and the very vitalizing breaths.

　　A mind steeped in the wealth of solitude is like a many faceted gem discovered by a shoot of sun-beams; instantane-ouswly the soul's secrets will tremble into perceptible forms of unimagined splendour.

　　Love not only inspires the soul to creation, it also urges it to destruction:——

　　Destruction is the absolute form of creation.

　　Love challenges one to dare the impossible.

　　Cowardice is the cause of most, if not all, life-long regrets.

　　The most powerful and most pregeant sentiment next to Love is that of Pity.

　　The most saintly quality next to willing self-sacrifice is the spirit of tolerance.

　　True tolerance comes of illumination of the mind: It presupposes an uncommon power of the intellect.

　　When a radiation of light is confronted with a material object, it first tries to pierce through it. On failing which, however, it contents to embrace it by allowing it to be in its way, thus taking a measure of the mass and the pracise angu larity A the thing it fails to penetrate.

　　In all Mad one pictures the life of divinity is dependent on the truth of humanity they convey. So it is through the human that the divine is revealed to the mortal minds. There is no such thing as divinity apart from what is also discoverable in human nature."God created man in his own image". Rather man creates god in his own image.

　　A sorrowing heart is a growing heart. One's capacity for sorrow is the measure of one's capacity for growth.

　　O Lord！Must the dogs bark when the nightingale is singing？

　　After all the Owl is a poet and singer too, although we must admit he is extremely bad at it. One can in fact follow the rhythm of the hooting much easily than the passionate outpourings of the nightingale; his failure is common to all bad poets and bad musicians, namely, mistaking repetitive uniformity for the principle of unity which is the secret of true rhythm, and which the nightingale understands so well.

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