- end_line
- 11557
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 11518
- text
- “No, thank you, Azzageddi, not after that infernal fashion; better
weep.”
“He makes me crawl all over, as if I were an ant-hill,” said Mohi.
“He’s mad, mad, mad!” cried Yoomy.
“Ay, mad, mad, mad!—mad as the mad fiend that rides me!—But come, sweet
minstrel, wilt list to a song?—We madmen are all poets, you know:—Ha!
ha!—
Stars laugh in the sky:
Oh fugle-fi I
The waves dimple below:
Oh fugle-fo!
“The wind strikes her dulcimers; the groves give a shout; the hurricane
is only an hysterical laugh; and the lightning that blasts, blasts only
in play. We must laugh or we die; to laugh is to live. Not to laugh is
to have the tetanus. Will you weep? then laugh while you weep. For
mirth and sorrow are kin; are published by identical nerves. Go, Yoomy:
go study anatomy: there is much to be learned from the dead, more than
you may learn from the living and I am dead though I live; and as soon
dissect myself as another; I curiously look into my secrets: and grope
under my ribs. I have found that the heart is not whole, but divided;
that it seeks a soft cushion whereon to repose; that it vitalizes the
blood; which else were weaker than water: I have found that we can not
live without hearts; though the heartless live longest. Yet hug your
hearts, ye handful that have them; ’tis a blessed inheritance! Thus,
thus, my lord, I run on; from one pole to the other; from this thing to
that. But so the great world goes round, and in one Somerset, shows the
sun twenty-five thousand miles of a landscape!”
At that instant, down went the fiery full-moon, and the Dog-Star; and
far down into Media, a Tivoli of wine.
- title
- Chunk 2