Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints--however
familiar their metaphor and the general structure of their
thought--has ceased to hold our attention. We know that we must
at last forsake the world, and we are accustomed in moments of
weariness or exaltation to consider a voluntary forsaking; but
how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen so many paintings,
listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh and the cry
of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely? What have
we in common with St. Bernard covering his eyes that they may
not dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with
the violent rhetoric of the Book of Revelations? We would, if we
might, find, as in this book, words full of courtesy. 'I have
got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all
and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door--and
I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words
from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than
I could give.
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