But after the first glow of
enthusiasm, the youth would detect traces of imperfection, sometimes
even of wickedness. Then he would begin to investigate and to test his
host with questions concerning justice and injustice. And soon he
would be driven forth again upon the cold wearisome way. More than
once he said to himself: 'I will remain at this last hearth, I will
preserve my last belief. It shall be the home of my father.'"
"Do you know, Socrates, perhaps that would have been the most sensible
thing to do."
"So he thought sometimes. But the habit of investigating, the confused
dream of a father, gave him no peace. Again and again he shook the
dust from his feet; again and again he grasped his staff. Not a few
stormy nights found him shelterless. Doesn't it seem to you that the
fate of this youth resembles the fate of mankind?"
"Why?"
"Does not the race of man make trial of its childish belief and doubt
it while seeking the unknown? Doesn't it fashion the form of its
father in wood, stone, custom, and tradition? And then man finds the
form imperfect, destroys it, and again goes on his wanderings in the
desert of doubt.
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