That is the best part of beauty， which a picture cannot express； no， nor the first sight of the life. There is no excellent beauty， that hath not some strangeness in the proportion. A man cannot tell， whether Apelles， or Albert Durer， were the more trifler： whereof the one would make a personage by geometrical proportions： the other， by taking the best parts out of divers faces， to make one excellent. Such personages， I think， would please nobody but the painter that made them. Not but I think a painter may make a better face， than ever was； but he must do it， by a kind of felicity （as a musician that maketh an excellent air in music） and not by rule.
A man shall see faces， that if you examine them， part by part， you shall find never a good； and yet all together do well. If it be true，that the principal part of beauty is in decent motion， certainly it is no marvel though persons in years seem many times more amiable； pulchravmautumnuspiiJcher： for no youth can be comely but by pardon， and considering the youth as to make up the comeliness.
Beauty is as summer fruits， which are easy to corrupt， and cannot last and， for the most part， it makes a dissolute youth， and an age a little out of countenance： but yet certainly again， if it light well， it maketh virtues shine， and vices blush.
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The Myth of Sisyphus
西西弗的神话
The GODS had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain， whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
If one believes Homer， Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition， however， he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with， he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. ？gina， the daughter of， ？sopus， was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He， who’knew of the abduction. offered to tell about it on condition that ？sopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted， silent empire. He dispatched the god of war， who 1iberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.
It is said also that Sisyphus， being near to death， rashly wanted to test his wife’s love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there， annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love， he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. Butwhen he had seen again the face of this world， enjoyed water and sun， warm stones and the sea， he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls， signs of anger， warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf， the sparkling sea， and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and， snatching him from his joys， led him forcibly back to the underworld， where his rock was ready for him.
You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is， as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods， his hatred of death， and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted reward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth， one sees mereIy the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone， to roll it and push it up a slope a hundred times over； one sees the face screwed up， the cheek tight against the stone， the shoulder bracing the claycovered mass， the foot wedging it， the fresh start with arms outstretched， the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth， the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return， that pause， that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself ！ I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing- space which returns as surely as his suffering， that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods， he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
If this myth is tragic， that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be， indeed， if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him？ Theworkman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks， and this fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus， proletarian of the gods， powerless and rebellious， knows the whole extent of his wretched condition： it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.
