“ Men and women live but to die; we, that is such as I—we are but a few—live to live on. Old age is to you a horror; to me it is a dear desire: the older we grow, the nearer we are to our perfection. Your perfection is a poor thing, comes soon, and lasts but a little while; ours is a ceaseless ripening. I am not yet ripe, and have lived thousands of your years—how many, I never cared to note. ”
George MacDonald, Lilith (1895). copy citation
| Author | George MacDonald |
|---|---|
| Source | Lilith |
| Topic | perfection age |
| Date | 1895 |
| Language | English |
| Reference | |
| Note | |
| Weblink | http://www.gutenberg.org/files/1640/1640-h/1640-h.htm |
Context
“every flower of Hybla and Hymettus must have sent its ghost to swell the soul of that wine!
“And now that you will be able to listen,” she went on, “I must do what I can to make myself intelligible to you. Our natures, however, are so different, that this may not be easy. Men and women live but to die; we, that is such as I—we are but a few—live to live on. Old age is to you a horror; to me it is a dear desire: the older we grow, the nearer we are to our perfection. Your perfection is a poor thing, comes soon, and lasts but a little while; ours is a ceaseless ripening. I am not yet ripe, and have lived thousands of your years—how many, I never cared to note. The everlasting will not be measured.
“Many lovers have sought me; I have loved none of them: they sought but to enslave me; they sought me but as the men of my city seek gems of price.—When you found me, I found a man!”
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