“Suddenly the light broke through to me and I knew this God was a lie.
I have sort of love for most living things, but I cannot recall any time in my life when I had the faintest shadow of an intimation of love for any one of the persons in the Holy Trinity. I could as soon love a field scarecrow as those pateched up ‘persons’. I am still as unable to account for the scstasies of the faithful as I was to feel as my mother wished me to feel. I sensed it was a silly story long before I dared to admit even to myself that it was a silly story.
For indeed it is a silly story and each generation nowadays swallows it with greater difficulty. It is a jumble up of a miscellany of the old sacrificial and consolatory relgiouns of the confused and unhappy townspeople of the early Empire.”
Here is an excerpt from the autobiography of someone who discovered quite a few remarable new lands and discovered a whole new ‘time’ in his fictional work. I’m talking about H G Wells.
If it was not for Wells, I would have left reading this autobiography long back. It requires patience which I’m often told I don’t have…
Two huge volumes are less about his work and himself… but I’m discovering him through his blabber about how his parents and grandparents spent their lives. He has given such detailed descriptions of how his mother grew and how his father couldn’t settle for a business… how as a little child he refused to believe in God to his mother’s anger. He was made to fear Hell… which he grew up to destroy through his books.
This has made me more curious towards the fact that people who dreamt of and wrote of imaginary lands, refused to slave under simple religious tales…
Does the art of creating new tales defy the old one? or simply becomes an extension in a new direction? Does the new grow out of old? Why are these two words opposites?