{"id":"01KG8AKSEM8TP5G61ZCTTYP7SH","cid":"bafkreigkbgm6esaulfdmxslgzf6ex3qqnloarhd6whsuf5anr4abhbfrny","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":10684,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 3","source_file":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","start_line":10605,"text":"sun:—in reveries, rending droves of elephants; but his vast loins\r\nsupine, and eyelids winking? Such, Lombardo; but fierce Want, the\r\nhunter, came and roused his roar. In hairy billows, his great mane\r\ntossed like the sea; his eyeballs flamed two hells; his paw had stopped\r\na rolling world.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—In other words, yams were indispensable, and, poor devil, he\r\nroared to get them.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA (_bowing_)—Partly so, my literal lord. And as with your own\r\ngolden scepter, at times upon your royal teeth, indolent tattoos you\r\nbeat; then, potent, sway it o’er your isle; so, Lombardo. And ere\r\nNecessity plunged spur and rowel into him, he knew not his own paces.\r\n_That_ churned him into consciousness; and brought ambition, ere then\r\ndormant, seething to the top, till he trembled at himself. No mailed\r\nhand lifted up against a traveler in woods, can so, appall, as we\r\nourselves. We are full of ghosts and spirits; we are as grave-yards\r\nfull of buried dead, that start to life before us. And all our dead\r\nsires, verily, are in us; _that_ is their immortality. From sire to\r\nson, we go on multiplying corpses in ourselves; for all of which, are\r\nresurrections. Every thought’s a soul of some past poet, hero, sage. We\r\nare fuller than a city. Woe it is, that reveals these things. He knows\r\nhimself, and all that’s in him, who knows adversity. To scale great\r\nheights, we must come out of lowermost depths. The way to heaven is\r\nthrough hell. We need fiery baptisms in the fiercest flames of our own\r\nbosoms. We must feel our hearts hot—hissing in us. And ere their fire\r\nis revealed, it must burn its way out of us; though it consume us and\r\nitself. Oh, sleek-cheeked Plenty! smiling at thine own dimples;—vain\r\nfor thee to reach out after greatness. Turn! turn! from all your tiers\r\nof cushions of eider-down—turn! and be broken on the wheels of many\r\nwoes. At white-heat, brand thyself; and count the scars, like old\r\nwar-worn veterans, over camp-fires. Soft poet! brushing tears from\r\nlilies—this way! and howl in sackcloth and in ashes! Know, thou, that\r\nthe lines that live are turned out of a furrowed brow. Oh! there is a\r\nfierce, a cannibal delight, in the grief that shrieks to multiply\r\nitself. That grief is miserly of its own; it pities all the happy. Some\r\ndamned spirits would not be otherwise, could they.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA (_to Media_)—Pray, my lord, is this good gentleman a devil?\r\n\r\nMEDIA.—No, my lord; but he’s possessed by one. His name is Azzageddi.\r\nYou may hear more of him. But come, Babbalanja, hast forgotten all\r\nabout Lombardo? How set he about that great undertaking, his Kortanza?\r\n\r\nABRAZZA (_to Media_)—Oh, for all the ravings of your Babbalanja,\r\nLombardo took no special pains; hence, deserves small commendation.\r\nFor, genius must be somewhat like us kings,—calm, content, in\r\nconsciousness of power. And to Lombardo, the scheme of his Kortanza\r\nmust have come full-fledged, like an eagle from the sun.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—No, your Highness; but like eagles, his thoughts were first\r\ncallow; yet, born plumeless, they came to soar.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—Very fine. I presume, Babbalanja, the first thing he did, was\r\nto fast, and invoke the muses.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—Pardon, my lord; on the contrary he first procured a ream of\r\nvellum, and some sturdy quills: indispensable preliminaries, my\r\nworshipful lords, to the writing of the sublimest epics.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—Ah! then the muses were afterward invoked.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—Pardon again. Lombardo next sat down to a fine plantain\r\npudding.\r\n\r\nYOOMY—When the song-spell steals over me, I live upon olives.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—Yoomy, Lombardo eschewed olives. Said he, “What fasting\r\nsoldier can fight? and the fight of all fights is to write.” In ten\r\ndays Lombardo had written—\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—Dashed off, you mean.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—He never dashed off aught.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—As you will.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—In ten days, Lombardo had written full fifty folios; he\r\nloved huge acres of vellum whereon to expatiate.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 3"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJW03Z0Q25AN0GF175AXF","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKSESXAQFWR0DFAB60R48","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AKSEMSEY9G50056Q50B56","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.828Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:28.113Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}