Dialogue between Faust and Mephistopheles

We find ourselves in Dr. Faust's cellar, in a dark and obstructed chamber, lined with bookshelves and filled with stacks of books and grimoires, and where, illuminated by faint light of candles, Dr. Faust himself is at present leaning towards some arcane scripiture, and squints his eyes to read the works of ancient egyptians (who, as we well know, sought to make eternal both their works and themselves). Dr. Faust has long been obsessed with that same desire, which is not entirely illogical, we must admit, and appears to us a handsome man of middle age, who, while wearing the trappings of learned men, neither smells nor lacks wit, which must be deemed most extraordinary for a man of intellect of the day. Suddenly, interrupting his work, as if possessed by a devil, or at least by an imp of frustration, we hear him swear, and soon proceed to exclaim:

FAUST: Cursed be yon twisted hieroglyphs! Obstructions upon obstructions! Arcana over arcanum!
FAUST: Truly, all my learned life I have spent in attempt to decipher you, to wring you out of your secrets, to reconstruct the language of ancient hebrews, and this has been all my bounty: naught upon nothing, loss of eyesight over lackless figures, and a piercing stare to frighten the children. I have not approached the elixirs of immortality, nor the stones of power, and the wonders of the damned, still flickering like mirages in the horizon have not come closer; on the contrary, do I not see a first grey string, perching on my brow? Surely this must be a cruel jest, a lash from the whip of fate; or worse, perhaps a vengeance from an envious god? Gods! have I not indeed blasphemed? rebitten the forbidden apple, as it was put in one particular work? Perhaps I should repent, am I still not handsome and strong, gifted with the love of many a noble lady?
FAUST: No! I will not repent, and neither lay down my work, which however vain might appear, has indeed proven its worth. Hark! My pride will provide a justification, and my logic acclaims: 'all under the sun must be vindicated,' and this is mine; that the god of the monks and the bishops, the serf-god of peasant-folk, has neither meaning nor logic or consistency, so certainly He of mine, the god of numbers and logic, must be the one to exist. Or perhaps there is no god... No! I must not damn myself further! But here we are again, Dr. Faust, once again distracted... But gods! would I not accept divine help here, devilish even. You devils of corruption and might, will you not appear? Have I not yet sold my worthless soul for a penny? Won't you make sense of this thrice-damned work for me?
MEPHISTOPHELES: Here I am Faust, you have called me.
FAUST: Gods! How did you appear there?
MEPHISTOPHELES: That I shall reveal to you at some later date; you need not to concern yourself with it. What is more important is that I have come here to fulfill all your desires, and to bring to you those powers whose lack of you have recently bemoaned; and all this for a paltry price, indeed, for a price of a soul!
FAUST: Ah, I hear you Mephistopheles. I did indeed make such an offer, which I now see was not entirely misguided, but while I would not like to appear regretful, I must ask you what is it exactly that you can give to me? The price is indeed as cheap as I have ever been or heard offered, but is it not on such occassions that a bargain must be enforced most vehemently and sceptically?
MEPHISTOPHELES: Your words are wise. I see you have not become a doctor for no issue. So let me present you a brief list of my services. I shall begin with the most desirous, that is, womanly love: I will bring you that so coveted vessel, Helen of Troy, of whose love epics are sang; and mind you, she will be no eidolon, as I have heard some scholars claim, but be of both sound soul and mind, and heart even, which is so full of love, that we must keep her under surveillance at all times, lest it were to overflow and bring peace and pacificness to the affairs of the world. If this alone would not suffice to you, I can also bring you power and influence, which is ever sought for by men of all stations; for there are a great many exotic nations so ignorant and wicked, that they would be delighted to have a man like you at their helm. Or, if you were to desire to rule that of your present location, I can arrange it too, for I have heard it listed among those previously mentioned. Finally, if you were to be one of those of avaricious sort, I can also lend to you the treasuries of whole Turk and Cathay, for it was I who originally pawned them, and they have indeed failed to flaunt them sufficiently, preferring rather to lock them away in sundry Wunderkammerens. And rest assured, were you to be endowned with healthy gluttony, I will arrange all the world's cooks to cook you the cocks of all France.
FAUST: That is indeed a heady offering, and further, for if the vessel in offering is she who 'burned the topless towers of Ilium' by but her visage and love, then a stupendous bargain even. However, it is by its very magnitude, that I am reminded that every bargain must have its catch, and I think I know what is yours. Does not your undue reward prove its opposite also true? Is this not a sign, that there truly does exist some strangely human god, whose love and interest towards me is so vast as to attract a tempter such as you? And if indeed that is the case, what could you offer to rival the bliss of after-life, which is indeed unrivalled, regardless of whether it be blissful or not, especially if acceptance of your worlds were to be ultimately rewarded only by a ticket to the lowest of abysses?
MEPHISTOPHELES: That is truly a suspicion to taint and sour the best of feasts, and if it be so, the catch would prove to be a hook, as you have observed. However, you need not to worry, for I happen to be in possession of knowledge that shall dispel all your doubts, and will reveal it to you posthaste, with a brief feat of deductive theology.
MEPHISTOPHELES: You see, it is indeed as you have observed, that the words of God revealed to us through writing are proven true by my very appearence, yet it is also so, that they are neither to be taken as metaphorical, as suggested by certain timid and vain translators, nor wholly literally, as we take the works of lesser beings (for truly, could that be but audacity!). Instead, the writings thus transported to us from the all-powerful, all-seing, and omnipresent, should be taken as words wholly perfect and flawless; indeed, words so divine that only our humane limitations prevent us from being overwhelmed and subjugated by their mere appearence. Now, the point of this elucidation is of course to reveal you, that the power of the divine is not constrained by the concept of truth, nor reality (the latter being only the will of the omnipotent), or, to point out that the existence of a saviour is secondary to the idea of him, or, that the wording and meaning of the book and teachings are irrelevant to him, as indeed he works straight through their effect. In short, the book is not true, for it is its falsehood that brings about the 'best of possible worlds,' as it was once so wonderfully put, and both orthodoxy and the thousand heresies are equally sanctified, being part of a plan so complex that even its concept is hard to grasp for me, and no less to you.
FAUST: I see. So, what you are saying is that regardless of whether I accept or not, I will not be damned, as the hand of God who works only perfections has made me too. That is very pleasant to hear, and I must admit how your preaching caresses both my mind and heart, that is, both makes sense and gives birth to hope. However, while my caution might now surpass me, I must point out that nothing in your words exactly specifies my fate: whether I be going to heaven or hell?
MEPHISTOPHELES: There is neither heaven nor hell.
FAUST: That is pleasant to hear, and I seem to have run out of caution. Where do I sign? And while we are at it, could you please tell me, how did you actually end up here? From whence did you materialise in my office?
MEPHISTOPHELES: Here, this is the contract; your name goes there...

The Spiralling Stair

Many a desolate and distant land,
Ruled by a wild and furious man,
I've scaled, and would scale still,
Oft with, yet more often without my will;
As when struck with sad and ill fortune,
I seek amendments, or to renew my boon.
So was once, when of my caravan lost,
I straggled to one worn and distant post,
Through a desert, where with clouds of sand,
Were kept away the rays of sun from the land.
I should not paint the desert brown; nay, white,
And the colour of skin; all that met my sight
Was monotonous and bleak; the kind of place,
To give birth to harsh and conquering race.
As there I did seek their hospitality,
I was shown all they had, the porverty,
That is like a pride, and the form of vanity
That wears a lack like a thorned crown,
And coarse wool like a queenly gown.
I was brought to a tent; we supped in silence,
And slowly, slowly, feeling their suspense,
I glared my misty, steaming tea, asking,
What of it, whence comes all their stammering;
And what they said, I shall now recount,
For the manifold reader, a brief account,
For your information, or entertainment,
As in your easy life you seek amusement:

The oldest of all, the wily sage,
The methusalem of the race crowned with age,
He leant to my ear, and sternly spoke,
Words with stark terror adorned did evoke;
"Of my line I am last, yet hope my word,
Shall on the various and ignorant fall like a sword,
And what I once believed, which I still hold true,
Shall from your memory and account spring anew."
"In this world many a beauty I've seen,
In the states of bliss and paradise I've been,
The tower and the spiralling stair,
I have climbed with a youthful dare;
And there with my arrogance topped,
To the mansions of the gods I came and knocked,
And asked loudly, whence my life,
Of which I am proud, with might and power rife,
Should have its meaning, and telling purpose?
Upon saying this, I saw how a shadow arose,
And there in the mellow moonlight-gleam,
With flickering hand, he showed me this scene."
"From my father's line I am cursed, from Adam
To me and you, we are but a flock of lost lamb,
From our purpose lost, of meaning devoid,
Unnecessary, in wrong work employed;
That from Adam since, a vainglorious son
That had from his tracing fingers ran,
No right law had followed, and that the sin,
That hanged its weight upon our kin,
Was the same, and that I would him atone,
In blood I'd bathe, carry it all alone,
Though each and all his singular law,
Should follow till atoned was the single flaw."
"Since those spiralling stairs I've left,
That law and weight in my heart I've kept,
Some passions abjured, others embraced,
Bastions of wrong and mighty razed;
Judged and been judged, and in its bliss,
I shiver from the touch of his icy kiss."
There he stopped, and then did elaborate,
The verdict, of his and of my fate,
And gradually, I came to feel the chill,
And as he fixed his eyes to me, I felt his will.
"You visitor from a distant place,
Is it but coincidence you'd visit our race?
Do you not too, keep the law in me,
Though your life be short, your faith empty?"

I heard the words, and my spine did shiver,
In my easy chair I did tremble and quiver,
And when the foams of my cup did rise,
I could not from it wrench my eyes.
A hand moved, two men were at my side,
And to my questioning glance they replied,
"Hurry, hurry, and drink that bitter cup,
Drink your fill before your time is up;
Have you not heard, you will not leave,
And no cavalry shall bring you reprieve."
To this spot I leave the reader, let him,
Imagine how his own lips meet the rim,
What knowledge or terror, or both,
Shall overcome him who sups the broth;
Were I judged, or do I judge? I shan't tell,
Before the austere times shall ring the bell,
And down from those spiralling stairs,
I shall return to tie up my untied affairs.

Dark beauty, II

Pardon me, you dreamers of peace and prosperity,
A song as mine should damn the singer,
As alike is lost both tranquil mind and eye,
When innocence shatters before the sea.
Yet like the plow of land, the shade of night,
I, when ripe was the day and full the moon,
Dreamt of shifting orbs and August noon;
That sun would wreathe the other in fire and light,
And boil away that milk from the moon.

Have not all the pacific times in past,
Alike all the empires and their crowns been lost,
Sank their secrets in fleeter stream? So do sink,
All the sundry teams that hang from the brink,
All the mellow worlds that seek the skies,
And who before the wreathed moon avert their eyes.
So, you crushers of empires in verge of defeat,
You waxing powers of unsure strength,
Sink your thunderbolts in shallow lands,
And wring from your drums a warring beat;
So that no August noon with Cynthia's grace,
Shall award to futile and waning race,
And when her fiery wreath is gone,
I hope the work of sinking swords is done.

Interlude

You rulers below the low-hanging brand,
Whose mien and reach, over the nations command,
I pray for your happiness, and even more so,
That you be happy when its your time to go;
For no immortal master, no imp for the throne,
Can his mien and reach uphold with power alone;
For though no cunning Caesar ever fleetly failed,
Rare's the king that stayed and saw his heirs die;
And no man of stone ever has on the throne prevailed,
And none living passed before Time's scrying eye.
So, you undying Caesars below the swords,
I hope you find no pleasure from empty words.

Salut! Ye champions of pleasure! Op. 44

Salut! Ye champions of pleasure!
Whence do you come, to hurry thither to
the sport, with your standards glimmering
and gleaning and your lancets erect?
Whence to the sigils of night, to its
cafes and bars, to keep your vigil, below
the lamp-light gleam? With your weary
pace and dance-light step, one would
think you virgins to the world, passing
from below one lamp to another, through
the shades that pursue the walkers. Have
you not seen those shades, felt their
breath on your sweaty necks? As you haste
to do your duty, suppose upon arriving
you would not find it there, your object
blurry and distant, would you be
delighted? Or further, suppose that
Janus, that god of gates, would blink and
block your path, would you still act like
dragonslayers? So, when hurrying below
the empress moon, I hope she will not lower her
thumb, for who would then be left to hear
of that? And if you were to feel that breath
behind you, do not turn, but haste once
more; below the night-lights, towards
your desirous and deviant excesses, to keep
your vigil, to not turn, and not to feel.

An Astral, Op. 43

Imagine all the scenes of nature from the hillsides: the moss
there upon the cliff, the spruce there on the bedrock rooted,
the pallid fungi in some crevice locked, the nocturnal animals
below the rocks, and all others which meet and delight the
wanderer of the wilds. Could these sights be but
facades of greater existences, or some hair-extensions
of bulbous horrors? Should the moss not be the hide of terror,
the spruce the villi of a licking tongue, the animals
the flora of much vaster scale? And when, waking
from her thousand-year slumber, should not our hill-hydra flail
its head? should the moss not scatter like atoms of dust,
the spruce clutch tight to its mother-rock, the animals hide
in their cavern-homes, to drink the last air of their waking day?
Suppose further, that it was a meteor-beast to hurl itself
from one gnawed-out world to another, or a veritable planet,
gliding past the 'expansive and empty voids,' to embrace yet
another sun with elongated arms; to bask in a while in
forge-fire, or drain its innumerable abysses of their life-elixirs.
Is it not so, that to dream such a dream is to dream of dreaming
itself? of dreams as vast as ours are small, of dreams that take
the shape of weather-systems, of super-continents, of hordes
of men as dream-atoms and messenger-particles? And, suppose
at the very last, that an astral, or an inorganic and venomous
star-deity, is travelling past the sky like a falling star,
in a trajectory preordained by the infinities of fate...
and I shall suppose that another artist, as he gazes out of his
dream-window, will as well throw her a glance of wonderment.