HAPPY ARE those ages when the starry sky is the map of all possible paths–ages whose paths are illuminated by the light of the stars. Everything in such age is new and yet familiar, full of adventure and yet their own. The world is wide and yet it is like a home, for the fire that burns in the soul is of the same essential nature as the stars; the world and the self, the light and the fire, are sharpy distinct, yet they never become permanent strangers to oen another, for fire is the soul of all light and all fire clothes itself in light. Thus each action of the soul becomes meaningful and rounded in this duality: complete in meaning–in sense–and complete for the senses; rounded because the soul rests within itself even while it acts; rounded because its action seperates itself from it and, having become itself, finds a centre of its own and draws a closed circumference round itself. ‘Philosophy is really homesickness,’ says Novalis: ‘it is the urge to be at home everywhere.’
– György Lukács, The Theory of the Novel
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