So, we have the surprising fact that these epochs of so-called plenitude have always felt in the depths of their consciousness a most peculiar form of melancholy. That desire slowly gestated, which in the 19th Century seems at last to realize, is what was named briefly for itself "modern culture." The very name is a disturbing one: that a time calls itself "modern," that is to say, final, definitive, in whose presence all the rest is mere preterit, humble preparation and aspiration towards this present!
