and passions, and to find themselves again in the great being of the universe.  The little circles of their egotisms have to be opened out until they become arcs in the sweep of the racial purpose.  And this that you teach to others you must learn also sedulously yourselves.  Philosophy, discovery, art, every sort of skill, every sort of service, love:  these are the means of salvation from that narrow loneliness of desire, that brooding preoccupation with self and egotistical relationships, which is hell for the individual, treason to the race, and exile from God....’

Section 12

As things round themselves off and accomplish themselves, one begins for the first time to see them clearly.  From the perspectives of a new age one can look back upon the great and widening stream of literature with a complete understanding.  Things link up that seemed disconnected, and things that were once condemned as harsh and aimless are seen to be but factors in the statement of a gigantic problem.  An enormous bulk of the sincerer writing of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries falls together now into an unanticipated unanimity; one sees it as a huge tissue of variations upon one theme, the conflict of human egotism and personal passion and narrow imaginations on the one hand, against the growing sense of wider necessities and a possible, more spacious life.

That conflict is in evidence in so early a work as Voltaire’s Candide, for example, in which the desire for justice as well as happiness beats against human contrariety and takes refuge at last in a forced and inconclusive contentment with little things.  Candide was but one of the pioneers of a literature of uneasy complaint that was presently an innumerable multitude of books.  The novels more particularly of the nineteenth century, if one excludes the mere story-tellers from our consideration, witness to this uneasy realisation of changes that call for effort and of the lack of that effort.  In a thousand aspects, now tragically, now comically, now with a funny affectation of divine detachment, a countless host of witnesses tell their story of lives fretting between dreams and limitations.  Now one laughs, now one weeps, now one reads with a blank astonishment at this huge and almost unpremeditated record of how the growing human spirit, now warily, now eagerly, now furiously, and always, as it seems, unsuccessfully, tried to adapt itself to the maddening misfit of its patched and ancient garments.  And always in these books as one draws nearer to the heart of the matter there comes a disconcerting evasion.  It was the fantastic convention of the time that a writer should not touch upon religion.  To do so was to rouse the jealous fury of the great multitude of professional religious teachers.  It was permitted to state the discord, but it was forbidden to glance at any possible reconciliation.  Religion was the privilege of the pulpit....