Of the Presence itself and its mode she could use nothing better than
metaphors. But those to whom she spoke were given to understand that
it was not this or that faculty of her being that, so to speak, pushed
against it; but that her entire being was saturated so entirely, that
it was but just possible to distinguish her inmost self from it. The
understanding no longer moved; the emotions no longer rebelled; memory
simply ceased. Yet through the worst there remained one minute,
infinitesimally small spark of identity that maintained "I am I; and I
am not that." There was no analysis or consideration; scarcely even a
sense of disgust. In fact for a while there was a period when to that
tiny spot of identity it appeared that it would be an incalculable
relief to cease from striving, and to let self itself be merged in
that Personality so amazingly strong and compelling, that had
precipitated itself upon the rest.... Relief? Certainly. For though
emotion as most men know it was crushed out--that emotion stirred by
human love or hatred--there remained an instinct which strove, which,
by one long continuous tension, maintained itself in being.
For the malignity of the thing was overwhelming.
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