I am
afraid that it would be hard to say as much for a certain class of
outside-the-Village fakers who, from time to time, drift into the
cheery confines thereof and carry away sacks of shekels--though not,
let us hope, as much as they wanted to get!
Have you ever heard, for instance, of the psychoanalysts? They
diagnose soul troubles as regular doctors diagnose diseases of the
body, and they are in great demand. Some of them are alienists,
healers of sick brains; some of them are just--fakers. They charge
immense prices, and just for the moment the blessed Village--always
passionately hospitable to new cults and theories and visions--is
receiving them cordially, with arms and purses that are both wide
open.
None of us can afford to depreciate the genius nor the judgment of
Freud, but I defy any Freud-alienist to efficiently psychoanalyse the
Village! By the time he were half done with the job he would be a
Villager himself and then--pouf! That for his psychoanalysis!
Have you ever read that most enchanting book of Celtic mysticism,
inconsequent whimsey and profound symbolism--"The Crock of Gold"--by
one James Stevens? The author is not a Villager, and his message is
one which has its root and spring in the signs and wonders of another,
an older and a more intimately wise land than ours.
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