Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me
And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary
Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and always faster. Thus did I come unto you, ye present-day men, and into the land of culture
For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily, with longing in my heart did I come
But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed—I had yet to laugh! Never did mine eye see anything so motley-coloured!
I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as well. "Here forsooth, is the home of all the paintpots,"—said I
With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs—so sat ye there to mine astonishment, ye present-day men!
And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours, and repeated it!
Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces! Who could—RECOGNISE you!
Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters also pencilled over with new characters—thus have ye concealed yourselves well from all decipherers!
And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that ye have reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps
All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures
He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures, would just have enough left to scare the crows
And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary
Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and always faster. Thus did I come unto you, ye present-day men, and into the land of culture
For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily, with longing in my heart did I come
But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed—I had yet to laugh! Never did mine eye see anything so motley-coloured!
I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as well. "Here forsooth, is the home of all the paintpots,"—said I
With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs—so sat ye there to mine astonishment, ye present-day men!
And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours, and repeated it!
Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces! Who could—RECOGNISE you!
Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters also pencilled over with new characters—thus have ye concealed yourselves well from all decipherers!
And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that ye have reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps
All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures
He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures, would just have enough left to scare the crows
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