Nationalism
Rabindranath Tagore
Paperback
(Independently published, June 7, 2020)
I know not who paints the pictures on memory's canvas; but whoever he may be, what he ispainting are pictures; by which I mean that he is not there with his brush simply to make afaithful copy of all that is happening. He takes in and leaves out according to his taste. Hemakes many a big thing small and small thing big. He has no compunction in putting intothe background that which was to the fore, or bringing to the front that which was behind.In short he is painting pictures, and not writing history.Thus, over Life's outward aspect passes the series of events, and within is being painted aset of pictures. The two correspond but are not one.We do not get the leisure to view thoroughly this studio within us. Portions of it now andthen catch our eye, but the greater part remains out of sight in the darkness. Why the everbusy painter is painting; when he will have done; for what gallery his pictures aredestined—who can tell?Some years ago, on being questioned as to the events of my past life, I had occasion to pryinto this picture-chamber. I had thought to be content with selecting some few materialsfor my Life's story. I then discovered, as I opened the door, that Life's memories are notLife's history, but the original work of an unseen Artist. The variegated colours scatteredabout are not reflections of outside lights, but belong to the painter himself, and comepassion-tinged from his heart; thereby unfitting the record on the canvas for use asevidence in a court of law.But though the attempt to gather precise history from memory's storehouse may befruitless, there is a fascination in looking over the pictures, a fascination which cast its spellon me.The road over which we journey, the wayside shelter in which we pause, are not pictureswhile yet we travel—they are too necessary, too obvious. When, however, before turninginto the evening resthouse, we look back upon the cities, fields, rivers and hills which wehave been through in Life's morning, then, in the light of the passing day, are they picturesindeed. Thus, when my opportunity came, did I look back, and was engrossed.