Even much stronger mortals than Fred Vincy hold half their rectitude in the mind of the being they love best. "The theater of all my actions is fallen," said an antique personage when his chief friend was dead, and they are fortunate who get a theater where the audience demands their best.
Just a month from this day, on the twentieth of September, 1850, I shall be sitting in this chair, in this study, at ten o' clock at night, longing to die, weary of incessant insight and foresight, without delusions and without hope.
Perhaps we don't always discriminate between sense and nonsense.
That's the way with 'em all: it's as if they thought the world 'ud be new-made because they're to be married.
When God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was—he only saw the brightness of the Lord.
Our consciences are not all of the same pattern, an inner deliverance of fixed laws: they are the voice of sensibilities as various as our memories.
I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbours with our words is that our good will gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil.
Our mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged.
But human experience is usually paradoxical, that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk or even current philosophy.