universe. What we call matter, that unsearchable organism, that

amalgamation of incommensurable energies, in which can occasionally be

detected an almost imperceptible degree of intention which makes us

shudder, that blind, benighted cosmos, that enigmatical Pan, has a cry,

a strange cry, prolonged, obstinate, and continuous, which is less than

speech and more than thunder. That cry is the hurricane. Other voices,

songs, melodies, clamours, tones, proceed from nests, from broods, from

pairings, from nuptials, from homes. This one, a trumpet, comes out of

the Naught, which is All. Other voices express the soul of the universe;

this one expresses the monster. It is the howl of the formless. It is

the inarticulate finding utterance in the indefinite. A thing it is full

of pathos and terror. Those clamours converse above and beyond man. They

rise, fall, undulate, determine waves of sound, form all sorts of wild

surprises for the mind, now burst close to the ear with the importunity

of a peal of trumpets, now assail us with the rumbling hoarseness of

distance. Giddy uproar which resembles a language, and which, in fact,

is a language. It is the effort which the world makes to speak. It is

the lisping of the wonderful. In this wail is manifested vaguely all

that the vast dark palpitation endures, suffers, accepts, rejects. For

the most part it talks nonsense; it is like an access of chronic

sickness, and rather an epilepsy diffused than a force employed; we

fancy that we are witnessing the descent of supreme evil into the

infinite. At moments we seem to discern a reclamation of the elements,

some vain effort of chaos to reassert itself over creation. At times it

is a complaint. The void bewails and justifies itself. It is as the

pleading of the world's cause. We can fancy that the universe is engaged

in a lawsuit; we listen--we try to grasp the reasons given, the

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The Man Who Laughs