There is no possibility of remembering what has been found and understood, and later repeating it to oneself. It disappears as a dream disappears. Perhaps it is all nothing but a dream.
In 1931, a Russian author dared to think that there was something more than this world. P.D. Ouspensky knew on a very intuitive level that certain things were defective in modern thinking, and that something else was needed to correct the error.
What is perhaps most interesting, or maybe disturbing, is the precision with which he foresaw the degeneration of Western life. To read his thoughts on the corruption of language, penned over 75 years ago, causes a shudder when one begins to look at the postmodern view of language, ranging from things such as ebonics to internet jargon.
For so many years, America saw itself as the antithesis of the Soviet regime, the very system under which Ouspensky wrote his essays. But the degeneration Ouspensky saw coming has infiltrated every corner of Western life. America, England, France, Russia, etc. All the countries that "represent" Western culture have found themselves under attack by the same degradation and meaninglessness.
What hope can there be for so many cultures, who have only proven that Progressivism was an empty theory from the beginning? Although I could quote C.S. Lewis to provide what I believe may be the answer, I shall instead let Ouspensky speak on the issue. And perhaps his hope can be made our own:
Suddenly I began to find a strange meaning in old fairy-tales; woods, rivers, mountains, became living beings; mysterious life filled the night; with new interests and new expectations I began to dream again of distant travels; and I remembered many extraordinary things that I had heard about old monasteries. Ideas and feelings which had long since ceased to interest me suddenly began to assume significance and interest. A deep meaning and many subtle allegories appeared in what only yesterday had seemed to be naive popular fantasy or crude superstition. And the greatest mystery and the greatest miracle was that the thought became possible that death may not exist, that those who have gone may not have vanished altogether, but exist somewhere and somehow, and that perhaps I may see them again. I have become so accustomed to think "scientifically" that I am afraid even to imagine that there may be something else beyond the outer covering of life. I feel like a man condemned to death, whose companions have been hanged and who has already become reconciled to the thought that the same fate awaits him; and suddenly he hears that his companions are alive, that they have escaped and that there is hope also for him. And he fears to believe this, because it would be so terrible if it proved to be false, and nothing would remain but prison and the expectation of execution.