“The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on
  Nor all your wit nor all your tears, can wash a line of it.”

Man cannot, unaided, make his connection with this higher power.  The world is at fault, yes, but we are at fault, something both within and without dreadfully needs explaining.  So man is subdued and troubled by the infinite mystery; and he cannot accept the place in which he finds himself in that mystery; he is ashamed of it.

Vivid, then, is his sense of helplessness!  It makes him resent the humanist, who bids him, unaided, solve his fate and be a man.  That is giving him stones when he asks for bread.  He knows that advice makes an inhuman demand upon the will; it assumes a reasonableness, an insight and a moral power, which for him do not exist; it ignores or it denies the reality and the meaning of this inner gulf.  It is important to note that even as philosophy and art and literature soon parted company with the naturalist, so, to a large degree, they part company with the humanist, too.  They do not know very much of an harmonious and triumphant universe.  Few of the world’s creative spirits have ever denied that inner chasm or minimized its tragic consequences to mankind.  Isaiah and Paul and John and Augustine and Luther are wrung with the consciousness of it.  Indeed, the antithesis between flesh and spirit is too familiar in religious literature to need any recounting.  It is more vividly brought home to us from the nonprofessional, the disinterested and involuntary testimony of secular writing.  Was there ever such a cry of revolt on the part of the trapped spirit against the net and slough of natural values and natural desires as runs through the sonnets of William Shakespeare?  We remember the 104th: 

  “Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
  Foiled by these rebel powers that thee array,
  Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
  Painting thine outward walls so costly gay? 
  Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
  Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
  Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
  Eat up thy charge?  Is this thy body’s end? 
  Then soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss
  And let that pine to aggravate thy store,
  Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross
  Within be fed, without be rich no more—­”

Or turn to our contemporary poet, James Stephens: 

  “Good and bad are in my heart
  But I cannot tell to you
  For they never are apart
  Which is the better of the two.

  I am this:  I am the other
  And the devil is my brother
  And my father he is God
  And my mother is the sod,
  Therefore I am safe, you see
  Owing to my pedigree.

  So I cherish love and hate
  Like twin brothers in a nest
  Lest I find when it’s too late
  That the other was the best."[28]