The eternal creative
mystery could dispose of man, and replace him with a finer created
being. Just as the horse has taken the place of the mastodon.
It was very consoling to Birkin, to think this. If humanity ran into a
CUL DE SAC and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery would
bring forth some other being, finer, more wonderful, some new, more
lovely race, to carry on the embodiment of creation. The game was never
up. The mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, inexhaustible,
forever. Races came and went, species passed away, but ever new species
arose, more lovely, or equally lovely, always surpassing wonder. The
fountain-head was incorruptible and unsearchable. It had no limits. It
could bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new species, in
its own hour, new forms of consciousness, new forms of body, new units
of being. To be man was as nothing compared to the possibilities of the
creative mystery. To have one's pulse beating direct from the mystery,
this was perfection, unutterable satisfaction.
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