Am I a Sorcerer—like Macbeth’s witches—mixing truth and lies in incandescent shapes? Or am I a kind of very minor scribe of a prophetic Book—telling such truth as in me lies, with aid of such fiction as I acknowledge mine, as Prospero acknowledged Caliban—I nowhere claim my poor bullet-headed brute of a Roman censor as other than mine, a clay mouth to whistle through. No answer, you will say, your head on one side, considering me, like a wise bird, sharply, and judging me as a prevaricator. Do you know—the only life I am sure of is the life of the Imagination. Whatever the absolute Truth—or
...more
