1 The Brothers Karamazov
about that man because I am that man myself.
Would he purge his soul from vileness
And attain to light and worth,
He must turn and cling for ever
To his ancient Mother Earth.
But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Moth-
er Earth. I don’t kiss her. I don’t cleave to her bosom. Am
I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don’t
know whether I’m going to shame or to light and joy. That’s
the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And
whenever I’ve happened to sink into the vilest degradation
(and it’s always been happening) I always read that poem
about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I’m
a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong
with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that de-
grading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very
depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let
me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss
the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though
I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I
love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world can-
not stand.
Joy everlasting fostereth
The soul of all creation,
It is her secret ferment fires
The cup of life with flame.
‘Tis at her beck the grass hath turned
Each blade towards the light
And solar systems have evolved