corridors of stone lit by ghastly lights and empty of all that is human.
So these expanders of the universe had nothing to show us except more
and more infinite corridors of space lit by ghastly suns and empty of
all that is divine.

In fairyland there had been a real law; a law that could be broken, for
the definition of a law is something that can be broken. But the
machinery of this cosmic prison was something that could not be broken;
for we ourselves were only a part of its machinery. We were either
unable to do things or we were destined to do them. The idea of the
mystical condition quite disappeared; one can neither have the firmness
of keeping laws nor the fun of breaking them. The largeness of this
universe had nothing of that freshness and airy outbreak which we have
praised in the universe of the poet. This modern universe is literally
an empire; that is, it is vast, but it is not free. One went into larger
and larger windowless rooms, rooms big with Babylonian perspective; but
one never found the smallest window or a whisper of outer air.

Their infernal parallels seemed to expand with distance; but for me all
good things come to a point, swords for instance. So finding the boast
of the big cosmos so unsatisfactory to my emotions I began to argue
about it a little; and I soon found that the whole attitude was even
shallower than could have been expected. According to these people the
cosmos was one thing since it had one unbroken rule. Only (they would
say) while it is one thing it is also the only thing there is. Why,
then, should one worry particularly to call it large? There is nothing
to compare it with. It would be just as sensible to call it small. A man
may say, "I like this vast cosmos, with its throng of stars and its
crowd of varied creatures." But if it comes to that why should not a man
say, "I like this cosy little cosmos, with its decent number of stars