space to its vision, offers no resistance to the tiger's looking. It can
only see of me that which it knows I am, a scent, a resistance, a
voluptuous solid, a struggling warm violence that it holds overcome, a
running of hot blood between its Jaws, a delicious pang of live flesh in
the mouth. This it sees. The rest is not.

And what is the rest, that which is-not the tiger, that which the tiger
is-not? What is this?

What is that which parted ways with the terrific eagle-like angel of the
senses at the Renaissance? The Italians said, 'We are one in the Father:
we will go back.' The Northern races said, 'We are one in Christ: we
will go on.'

What _is_ the consummation in Christ? Man knows satisfaction when he
surpasses all conditions and becomes, to himself, consummate in the
Infinite, when he reaches a state of infinity. In the supreme ecstasy
of the flesh, the Dionysic ecstasy, he reaches this state. But how does
it come to pass in Christ?

It is not the mystic ecstasy. The mystic ecstasy is a special sensual
ecstasy, it is the senses satisfying themselves with a self-created
object. It is self-projection into the self, the sensuous self satisfied
in a projected self.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven.