Suppose we met Euclid on Westminster Bridge, and he took us aside and
confessed to us that whilst he regarded parallelograms and rhomboids
with an indifference bordering on contempt, for isosceles triangles he
cherished a wild romantic devotion. Suppose he asked us to accompany
him to the nearest music-shop, and there purchased a guitar in order
that he might worthily sing to us the radiant beauty and the radiant
goodness of isosceles triangles. As men we should, I hope, respect his
enthusiasm, and encourage his enthusiasm, and catch his enthusiasm.
But as seekers after truth we should be compelled to regard with a
dark suspicion, and to check with the most anxious care, every fact
that he told us about isosceles triangles. For adoration involves a
glorious obliquity of vision. It involves more than that. We do not
say of Love that he is short-sighted. We do not say of Love that he
is myopic. We do not say of Love that he is astigmatic. We say quite
simply, Love is blind. We might go further and say, Love is deaf. That
would be a profound and obvious truth. We might go further still and
say, Love is dumb. But that would be a profound and obvious lie. For
love is always an extraordinarily fluent talker. Love is a wind-bag,
filled with a gusty wind from Heaven.
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