The great Russian writers are winter and spring. Turgenev is midsummer, and Gogol all the year round. We talked of symbolism. Life is a telegram of which we struggle to understand the cypher. Our actions are all rites, our words all mysteries.
Words rise and set in our minds like suns of various hues.
The world before sunrise is a word as yet not understood. Men, animals, scenes, flowers, change their shapes and positions as in a kaleidoscope turning, and they ever take new forms making new words. If we cannot accommodate ourselves to new forms and new words we become unhappy. The theosophist is calm, because he knows that which changes, but which is the same, whatever form it takes. They curse the name of God, God Himself they cannot curse.