immediately the ancient wall swept my mind back seventeen
hundred years to the eagle, the pilum, and the short sword. The
grey stones, the thin red bricks laid by those whose eyes had
seen Caesar's Rome, lifted me out of the grasp of house-life,
of modern civilisation, of those minutiae which occupy the
moment. The grey stone made me feel as if I had existed from
then till now, so strongly did I enter into and see my own
life as if reflected. My own existence was focused back on me;
I saw its joy, its unhappiness, its birth, its death, its
possibilities among the infinite, above all its yearning
Question. Why? Seeing it thus clearly, and lifted out of the
moment by the force of seventeen centuries, I recognised the
full mystery and the depths of things in the roots of the dry
grass on the wall, in the green sea flowing near. Is there
anything I can do? The mystery and the possibilities are not in
the roots of the grass, nor is the depth of things in the sea; they are in
my existence, in my soul. The marvel of existence,
almost the terror of it, was flung on me with crushing force by
the sea, the sun shining, the distant hills. With all their
ponderous weight they made me feel myself: all the time, all the
centuries made me feel myself this moment a hundred-fold. I
determined that I would endeavour to write what I had so long
thought of, and the same evening put down one sentence. There
the sentence remained two years. I tried to carry it on; I hesitated
because I could not express it: nor can I now, though in desperation I am
throwing these rude stones of thought together, rude as those of the ancient
wall.

CHAPTER III