into the mystic ...

[A particularly moving moment from the conclusion of Gore Vidal's masterful historical novel, Julian.]

... I burst into tears. I have never been so humiliated, or felt so ridiculous. The most famous philosopher of his time, if I may say so, was weeping like a child in front of his former pupil. But John was tactful. He said not a word until the storm had passed, and then he made no reference to my senile outburst. He took my arm and led me to the door. Then he turned round and indicated a high place on the opposite wall. "New work," he said. "I think it quite beautiful." I twisted my head so that I could see -- just barely -- what appeared to be the giant figure of a man with arms outstretched.

"Can you see him clearly?"

"Oh yes," I lied. The gold mosaic glowed like the sun itself in the afternoon light.

"It is Christ Pantocrator, come to redeem us. The face is particularly fine."

"Yes, I see the face," I said flatly. And I did: the dark, cruel face of an executioner.

"But you don't like what you see?"

"How can I, when what I see is death?"

"But death is not the end."

"It is the end of life."

"This life ..."

"Life!" I turned on him fiercely. "You have chosen death, all of you!"

"No, not death. We have chosen life eternal, the resurrection of the--"

"That is a story to tell children! The truth is that for thousands of years we looked to what was living! Now you look to what is dead, you worship a dead man and tell one another that this world is not for us, while the next is all that matters! Only there is no next world!"

"We believe--"

"This is all we have, John. There is nothing else! Turn your back on this world, and you face the pit!"