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Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints-however

familiar their metaphor and the general structure of their

thought-has ceased to hold our attention. We know that we must at

last forsake the world, and we are accustomed in moments of

weariness or exaltation to consider a voluntary forsaking; but

how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen so many paintings,

listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh and the cry

of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely? What have

we in common with St. Bernard covering his eyes that they may not

dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with the

violent rhetoric of the Book of Revelations? We would, if we

might, find, as in this book, words full of courtesy. "I have got

my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take

my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door-and I give up

all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you.