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The song of Isaiah； 'He is despised and rejected of men； a man of
sorrows and acquainted with grief： and we hid as it were our faces
from him；' had seemed to him to prefigure himself； and in him the
prophecy was fulfilled。 We must not be afraid of such a phrase。
Every single work of art is the fulfilment of a prophecy： for
every work of art is the conversion of an idea into an image。
Every single human being should be the fulfilment of a prophecy：
for every human being should be the realisation of some ideal；
either in the mind of God or in the mind of man。 Christ found the
type and fixed it； and the dream of a Virgilian poet； either at
Jerusalem or at Babylon； became in the long progress of the
centuries incarnate in him for whom the world was waiting。
To me one of the things in history the most to be regretted is that
the Christ's own renaissance； which has produced the Cathedral at
Chartres； the Arthurian cycle of legends； the life of St。 Francis
of Assisi； the art of Giotto； and Dante's DIVINE COMEDY； was not
allowed to develop on its own lines； but was interrupted and
spoiled by the dreary classical Renaissance that gave us Petrarch；
and Raphael's frescoes； and Palladian architecture； and formal
French tragedy； and St。 Paul's Cathedral； and Pope's poetry； and
everything that is made from without and by dead rules； and does
not spring from within through some spirit informing it。 But
wherever there is a romantic movement in art there somehow； and
under some form； is Christ； or the soul of Christ。 He is in ROMEO
AND JULIET； in the WINTER'S TALE； in Provencal poetry； in the
ANCIENT MARINER； in LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI； and in Chatterton's
BALLAD OF CHARITY。
We owe to him the most diverse things and people。 Hugo's LES
MISERABLES； Baudelaire's FLEURS DU MAL； the note of pity in Russian
novels； Verlaine and Verlaine's poems； the stained glass and
tapestries and the quattro…cento work of Burne…Jones and Morris；
belong to him no less than the tower of Giotto； Lancelot and
Guinevere； Tannhauser； the troubled romantic marbles of Michael
Angelo； pointed architecture； and the love of children and flowers
… for both of which； indeed； in classical art there was but little
place； hardly enough for them to grow or play in； but which； from
the twelfth century down to our own day； have been continually
making their appearances in art； under various modes and at various
times； coming fitfully and wilfully； as children； as flowers； are
apt to do： spring always seeming to one as if the flowers had been
in hiding； and only came out into the sun because they were afraid
that grown up people would grow tired of looking for them and give
up the search； and the life of a child being no more than an April
day on which there is both rain and sun for the narcissus。
It is the imaginative quality of Christ's own nature that makes him
this palpitating centre of romance。 The strange figures of poetic
drama and ballad are made by the imagination of others； but out of
his own imagination entirely did Jesus of Nazareth create himself。
The cry of Isaiah had really no more to do with his coming than the
song of the nightingale has to do with the rising of the moon … no
more； though perhaps no less。 He was the denial as well as the
affirmation of prophecy。 For every expectation that he fulfilled
there was another that he destroyed。 'In all beauty；' says Bacon；
'there is some strangeness of proportion；' and of those who are
born of the spirit … of those； that is to say； who like himself are
dynamic forces … Christ says that they are like the wind that
'bloweth where it listeth； and no man can tell whence it cometh and
whither it goeth。' That is why he is so fascinating to artists。
He has all the colour elements of life： mystery； strangeness；
pathos； suggestion； ecstasy； love。 He appeals to the temper of
wonder； and creates that mood in which alone he can be understood。
And to me it is a joy to remember that if he is 'of imagination all
compact；' the world itself is of the same substance。 I said in
DORIAN GRAY that the great sins of the world take place in the
brain： but it is in the brain that everything takes place。 We
know now that we do not see with the eyes or hear with the ears。
They are really channels for the transmission； adequate or
inadequate； of sense impressions。 It is in the brain that the
poppy is red； that the apple is odorous； that the skylark sings。
Of late I have been studying with diligence the four prose poems
about Christ。 At Christmas I managed to get hold of a Greek
Testament； and every morning； after I had cleaned my cell and
polished my tins； I read a little of the Gospels； a dozen verses
taken by chance anywhere。 It is a delightful way of opening the
day。 Every one； even in a turbulent； ill…disciplined life； should
do the same。 Endless repetition； in and out of season； has spoiled
for us the freshness； the naivete； the simple romantic charm of the
Gospels。 We hear them read far too often and far too badly； and
all repetition is anti…spiritual。 When one returns to the Greek；
it is like going into a garden of lilies out of some； narrow and
dark house。
And to me； the pleasure is doubled by the reflection that it is
extremely probable that we have the actual terms； the IPSISSIMA
VERBA； used by Christ。 It was always supposed that Christ talked
in Aramaic。 Even Renan thought so。 But now we know that the
Galilean peasants； like the Irish peasants of our own day； were
bilingual； and that Greek was the ordinary language of intercourse
all over Palestine； as indeed all over the Eastern world。 I never
liked the idea that we knew of Christ's own words only through a
translation of a translation。 It is a delight to me to think that
as far as his conversation was concerned； Charmides might have
listened to him； and Socrates reasoned with him； and Plato
understood him： that he really said ＇Greek text which cannot be
reproduced＇； that when he thought of the lilies of the field and
how they neither toil nor spin； his absolute expression was ＇Greek
text which cannot be reproduced＇； and that his last word when he
cried out 'my life has been completed； has reached its fulfilment；
has been perfected；' was exactly as St。 John tells us it was：
＇Greek text which cannot be reproduced＇ … no more。
While in reading the Gospels … particularly that of St。 John
himself； or whatever early Gnostic took his name and mantle … I see
the continual assertion of the imagination as the basis of all
spiritual and material life； I see also that to Christ imagination
was simply a form of love； and that to him love was lord in the
fullest meaning of the phrase。 Some six weeks ago I was allowed by
the doctor to have white bread to eat instead of the coarse black
or brown bread of ordinary prison fare。