"What do you want? The flame burns the torch away. You can't both live and have lived, my dear Christophe."
"You must live."
"It is a great thing to have been great."
"It is only a great thing when there are still men who are alive enough and great enough to appreciate it."
"Wouldn't you much rather have been the Greeks, who are dead, than any of the people who are vegetating nowadays?"
"I'd much rather be myself, Christophe, and very much alive."
Olivier gave up the argument. It was not that he was without an answer. But it did not interest him. All through the discussion he had only been thinking of Christophe. He said, with a sigh:
"You love me less than I love you."
Christophe took his hand and pressed it tenderly:
"Dear Olivier," he said, "I love you more than my life. But you must forgive me if I do not love you more than Life, the sun of our two races. I have a horror of the night into which your false progress drags me. All your sentiments of renunciation are only the covering of the same Buddhist Nirvana. Only action is living, even when it brings death. In this world we can only choose between the devouring flame and night. In spite of the sad sweetness of dreams in the hour of twilight, I have no desire for that peace which is the forerunner of death. The silence of infinite space terrifies me. Heap more fagots upon the fire! More! And yet more! Myself too, if needs must. I will not let the fire dwindle. If it dies down, there is an end of us, an end of everything."