Читать книгу The Centaurians. A novel онлайн

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“Your theory is nil, unnatural,” I was informed. “Nothing living has the power to survive the shock of test. The subject from the start is doomed to inward decay—you kill the strength nerves,” and I had “grasped a suggestion that only a master’s mind could complete.” Raw, immature, my great theory might be, but it was neither unnatural or impracticable; some bright, young student would master the science that I, through lack of ability for application (?) failed to perfect. Beneath the sun there is nothing new. The wonderful theory I dallied with had been in practice centuries ago and with many other valuable sciences had through disuse fallen out of existence.

The intellect of Time is degenerating with Earth. We grasp and marvel at that at which the ancient giant intellects simply nodded approval. Modernity is the reflection of miraculous originality of the early ages.

My career as a physician came abruptly to an end. I was wearied, and for the benefit of science would sacrifice nothing. That which had animated me now became an abomination. The profession of medicine had not scope enough to bring contentment or make me realize the vast ambition of pride. Vanity! vanity! vanity! I floated rudderless upon this cloudy lake and plunged into the huge, sulky, black waves of Disappointment, yet for an instant I gazed in the far distance—beautiful, enchanting, where the sun of Fame gilded the enticing pool of Success.