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“ ”As minhas primeiras emoções tinham sido a melancolia mais pura e a compaixão mais sincera, mas na mesma proporção em que o desamparo de Bartleby crescia na minha fantasia, aquela melancolia se transformava em medo, e a compaixão, em repulsa. É tão verdadeiro e ao mesmo tempo tão terrivel o fato de que, ao vermos ou presenciarmos a miséria, os nossos melhores sentimentos são despertados até um cer
to ponto; mas, em certos casos especiais, não passam disso. Erram os que afirmam que é devido apenas ao egoísmo inerente ao coração humano. Na verdade, provém de uma certa impotência em remediar um mal excessivo e orgânico. Para uma pessoa sensivel, a piedade é quase sempre uma dor. Quando afinal percebe que tal piedade não significa um socorro eficaz, o bom senso compele a alma a desvencilhar-se dela. O que vi naquela manhã convenceu-me de que o escrivão era vítima de um mal inato e incurável. Eu podia dar esmolas ao seu corpo, mas o seu corpo não lhe doía; era a sua alma que sofria, e ela estava fora do meu alcance.
About Herman Melville
Herman Melville (1 August 1819 – 28 September 1891) was an American novelist, essayist, short story writer, and poet of the American Renaissance period.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Additional quotes by Herman Melville
Cannibals? Who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgement, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate de fois gras.
Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color; and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows- a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues — every stately or lovely emblazoning — the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge — pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?
To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme.