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limitations, -- so to speak, disregards its own rules, but that is too free, I am thinking . . 'that thing', at any rate, Lucretius holds, 'by doing so brings immediate death to its old self'. However," up went the ex-- schoolmaster's finger, "poet Ovid, in the _Metamorphoses_, takes diametrically opposed view. He avers thus: 'As yielding wax' -- heated, you see, possibly for the sealing of documents or such, -- 'is stamped with new designs And changes shape and seems not still the same, Yet is indeed the same, even so our souls,' -- you hear, good sir? Our spirits! Our immorpresently varying form." "This is pretty cold comfort," Chamcha managed a trace of his old dryness. "Either I accept Lucretius and conclude that some demonic tal essences! -- 'Are still the same forever, but adopt In their migrations ever-varying forms.'"
He was hopping, now, from foot to foot, full of the thrill of the old words. "For me it is always Ovid over Lucretius," he stated. "Your soul, my good poor dear sir, is the same. Only in its migration it has adopted this
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