Upon all man’s works we write one word--imperfect. Full as our
world is of the beautiful and the useful, it also holds much
of immaturity, wreckage and failure. The scientist insists
that there is not one perfect leaf in the forest, not a red
rose but holds some blemish, not a cluster or bunch but has
suffered some injury. The winters chill the roots, untimely
frosts bite the seed, rude storms strain the boughs. What Nature
offers man is not perfection, but enough of use and beauty to
satisfy to-day’s hunger, and to allure man to something better.
Dwelling, therefore, under skies that oft are unfriendly, we
perceive that even man’s best work shares in imperfection. His
trains jump the track, his bridges break, his ships sink, rust
destroys his tools, fire smites his factories, epidemics shorten
his life. His fine arts are elective, representing the selection
of the best elements carried up to the ideal conditions, and
yet even man’s arts represent many forms of injury. All the
treasure-houses of the world fail to show one statue that is
perfect. The Winged Victory is without a head, the Venus di Milo
is without arms, the Minerva has a black stain on the forehead,
while only the torso of Jupiter remains, all else having
gone.--N. D. HILLIS.
(1550)
=Imperfection, Value of=--See _Diverse Influences_.