Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII. Swedenborg
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sombre impression from my reading of Swedenborg.
And the powers let me rest no more. Walking
along the little brook in the neighbourhood
of the village, I reach the so-called ravine
path between the two mountains. The entrance
between fallen and precipitous rocks has a
wonderful attraction for me. The almost perpendicular
hill, crowned by the deserted castle, forms
the gate of the ravine, in which the stream drives
a water-mill. A freak of nature has given the
rock the form of a Turk’s head, a fact well
known in the neighbourhood. Underneath, the
miller’s shed leans against the wall of rock.
Upon the latch of the door hangs a goat’s horn
smeared over with fat, and by it stands a broom.
This is certainly quite natural and ordinary,
yet I cannot help asking myself what devil has
put these two symbols of witchcraft, the goat’s
horn and the broom, just this morning in my
way? I press farther on up the damp, dark,
and uneven path, and come to a wooden building,
the strange aspect of which makes me stop.
It is a long, low erection, with six openings like
oven doors. Oven doors! Ye gods, where am
I then?
The image of Dante’s hell, the red-glowing
tombs of the heresiarchs, rises before me—and
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