WE are unknown, we knowers, ourselves to ourselves: this has its own good reason. We have never searched for ourselves — how should it then come to pass, that we should ever find ourselves? Rightly has it been said: Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Our treasure is there, where stand the hives of our knowledge. It is to those hives that we are always striving; as born creatures of ?ight, and as the honey-gatherers of the spirit, we care really in our hearts only for one thing — to bring something home to the hive! As far as the rest of life with its so-called experiences is concerned, which Of us has even sufficient serious inter est? Or sufficient time? In our dealings with such points of life, we are, I fear, never properly to the point; to be precise, our heart is not there, and certainly not our ear. Rather like one who, delighting in a divine distraction, or sunken in the seas of his own soul, in whose ear the clock has just thundered with all its force its twelve strokes of noon, suddenly wakes up, and asks himself, What has in point of fact just struck? So do we at times rub after wards, as it were, our puzzled ears, and ask in complete astonishment and complete embarrassment, Through what have we in point of fact just lived? Further, Who are we in point of fact? And count, after they have struck.
