I despair of humanity, I
despair of the war, I despair of myself. There is not one gleam of light in
all the sad landscape, and the abyss seems waiting at my feet to swallow me
up with everything that I cherish. It is no use saying to this demon of the
darkness that I know he is a humbug, a mere Dismal Jemmy of the brain, who
sits there croaking like a night owl or a tenth-rate journalist. My Dismal
Jemmy is not to be exorcised by argument. He can only be driven out by a
little sane companionship.
So I turn on a light and call for one of my bedside friends. They stand
there in noble comradeship, ready to talk, willing to remain silent, only
asking to do my pleasure. Oh, blessed be the name of Gutenberg, the Master
Printer. A German? I care not. Even if he had been a Prussian--which I
rejoice to think he was not--I would still say: "Blessed be the name of
Gutenberg," though Sir Richard Cooper, M.P., sent me to the Tower for it.
For Gutenberg is the Prometheus not of legend but of history. He brought
down the sacred flame and scattered the darkness that lay on the face of
the waters.
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