The Last Christmas Tree: An Idyl of Immortality E-Book

James Lane Allen

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In 'The Last Christmas Tree: An Idyl of Immortality,' James Lane Allen intricately weaves a tapestry of nostalgia, spirituality, and the poignant interplay between life and death. Set against the backdrop of the Christmas season, the narrative explores the titular tree's journey through time, embodying themes of immortality and the enduring nature of memories. Allen's lyrical prose and meditative tone reflect his keen awareness of human emotions and the transient beauty of existence, making this work a rich specimen of early 20th-century American literature that blends realism with symbolic depth. James Lane Allen, a prominent figure in American literature, was deeply influenced by his Kentucky roots and a fascination with the natural world. His literary pursuits were born out of a desire to capture the Southern landscape and ethos, often leading to explorations of morality, nature, and the complexities of human relationships. 'The Last Christmas Tree' reveals his profound interest in immortality, perhaps reflecting a personal contemplation of legacy amidst the passage of time, which resonates strongly with audiences seeking meaning in their own lives. This enchanting narrative is highly recommended for readers who appreciate a philosophical touch infused with emotive storytelling. Allen's exploration of time, memory, and immortality invites readers to reflect on their own lives and the traditions they cherish. Engaging and thoughtful, this work is ideal for anyone longing for literature that speaks to the heart and the eternal human experience.

Leseprobe

James Lane Allen

The Last Christmas Tree: An Idyl of Immortality

 

EAN 8596547318989

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

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LIFE on this earth, my children, means warmth. Do not forget that: whatever else it may be, life as we know it is warmth. Every living earthly thing is on fire and every fire is perpetually going out. When the warmth, when the fire, which is within us and which is perpetually going out, goes out for good, that is the end of us. It is the end of us as far as the life which we derive from the planet is ourselves. If our planetary life is our only life, when the planetary fire within us dies out, all of us dies out. If planetary fire be not our only vital flame, vital energy, then planetary dust and ashes are not the complete end of us, not the last word of our terrible lovable human story. And if this be true, what next may come, what kind of story will then begin with ourselves as its characters, what sort of existence for us will emerge from planetary extinction—that has always been the one greatest question, solicitude, hope, help, song, prayer of our race. It has never been more a problem than now when we know more about many other things than we have ever known yet can find out nothing about this thing and were never so impatient of our ignorance.

But meantime life on this earth implies warmth and carries warmth: that at least we positively have found out though without knowing what warmth is. Every living terrestrial creature is a candle, is a lamp. The rose is a perfumed lamp and when its bowl is without oil, that inimitable lamp so silently built to give off for a little while a few serene rays of vestal beauty as silently falls to pieces. The pine tree is a wild candle poised on a mountain table. The eagle is a winged candle burning to cinders on a peak of air. The albatross is a floating conflagration with all the ineffectual sea drenching its back and breast. The polar bear is a four-branch candle in a candlestick of snow. We human beings are laughing and tear-dripping candles, descending swiftly to our sockets. The sun and the stars are candles, whirling golden candles in the night of the universe, a long, long night. One by one they too burn down at those brief intervals which we with our puny measurements call ages. The whole myriad-lighted starry infinite, as far as we know, is a mere ballroom arranged for somebody’s pleasure, somebody’s dancing. The candles may last as long as the master of the revels requires them; and then perhaps at some strange daybreak of which we can conceive naught, they will go out to the final one—all go out at the coming-on of day. A strange day indeed without any suns, without any stars, these having been consumed during the ancient night. What our human race has always most wished to know, most liked to believe, is that Nature, the whole universe of Nature, is itself but a troubled night of being; and that when Nature has come to some kind of end, the night of existence will have come to an end also. Beyond will have to be some kind of day, endless day. Our human race has always believed or has tried to believe that on the Natureward confines of that day it will be discovered, assembled there, waiting there, having journeyed thither somehow: no matter how, so it arrive. For however dull and petty man may be, however despicable, brutish, abandoned, there has been no lack of sublimity in his vision, in his faith, of what he is to be: that after the last star has gone out in the night of Nature, the orb of his soul will have but begun to flash the immortality of its dawn.