"If thou would'st hear the Nameless, and descend
Into the Temple-cave of thine own self,
There, brooding by the central altar, thou
May'st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice,
By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise;
For knowledge is the swallow on the lake,
That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there
But never yet hath dipt into the Abysm."

In the same way Eckhart taught that no creature can apprehend the
Godhead, and, therefore, that the spark in the centre of the soul
(this doctrine, too, is found in Plotinus) must be verily divine.
The logic of the theory is inexorable. If only like can know like,
we cannot know God except by a faculty which is itself divine. The
real question is whether God, as an object of knowledge and worship
for finite beings, is the absolute Godhead, who transcends all
distinctions. The mediaeval mystics held that this "flight of the
alone to the alone," as Plotinus calls it, is possible to men, and
that in it consists our highest blessedness. They were attracted
towards this view by several influences. First, there was the
tradition of Dionysius, to whom (e.g.) the author of the "Theologia
Germanica" appeals as an authority for the possibility of "beholding
the hidden things of God by utter abandonment of thyself, and of
entering into union with Him who is above all existence, and all
knowledge." Secondly, there was what a modern writer has called "the
attraction of the Abyss," the longing which some persons feel very
strongly to merge their individuality in a larger and better whole,
to get rid not only of selfishness but of self for ever. "Leave
nothing of myself in me," is Crashaw's prayer in his wonderful poem
on St Teresa. Thirdly, we may mention the awe and respect long paid