No, but at least I have
A certain faint perception of the gilded
And quite preposterous crudeness of our days—
The sordid sickness of his life, and ours;
And that is something to be thankful for.
FAUST
Gratitude is a graceful gift.
OLDHAM
Come, come!
What snake has bitten you, that to your lips
A poisoned irony so bitter springs
To-night?
FAUST
I am revolving in my brain
This serious question: whether 'tis not best
That one turn humorist. The mind that seeks
Holiness, finds it seldom; who pursues
Beauty perhaps shall in a lengthened life
Find it perfected only once or twice.
But if one's quest were humor—what rich stores,
What tropic jungles of it, lie to hand
At every moment, everywhere one turns—
What luscious meadows for the humorist!
OLDHAM
No—for the satirist! There is no humor
In what you see and I see when we look
On this crude world wherein our lives are spent—
This sordid sphere where we are but spectators—
This crass grim modern spectacle of lives
Torn with consuming lust of one desire—
Gold, gold, forever gold— Or do you find
Humor in that?
FAUST