I have got an anonymous letter to-day which begins:
To give up one's self at the feet of another,
is the truest of all gifts.
The writer has never seen me, but knows me from my writings, and goes on
to say:
However petty or distant, the Sun[1]-worshipper gets a share of the
Sun's rays. You are the world's poet, yet to me it seems you are my own
poet!
[Footnote 1: Rabi, the author's name, means the Sun.]
and more in the same strain.
Man is so anxious to bestow his love on some object, that he ends by
falling in love with his own Ideal. But why should we suppose the idea to
be less true than the reality? We can never know for certain the truth of
the substance underlying what we get through the senses. Why should the
doubt be greater in the case of the entity behind the ideas which are the
creation of mind?
The mother realises in her child the great Idea, which is in every child,
the ineffableness of which, however, is not revealed to any one else. Are
we to say that what draws forth the mother's very life and soul is
illusory, but what fails to draw the rest of us to the same extent is the
real truth?
Every person is worthy of an infinite wealth of love--the beauty of his
soul knows no limit.... But I am departing into generalities. What I
wanted to express is, that in one sense I have no right to accept this
offering of my admirer's heart; that is to say, for me, seen within my
everyday covering, such a person could not possibly have had these
feelings.
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