But you are alone. Yet I never tell what you are. And if your face lights up my world as no other can – well, this feeling too, when viewed as the mere psychologist has to view it, appears to be simply what all the other friends report about their friends.
The lonely wanderer, who watches by the seashore the waves that roll between him and his home, talks of cruel facts, material barriers that, just because they are material, and not ideal, shall be the irresistible foes of his longing heart.
We seek true individuality and the true individuals. But we find them not. For lo, we mortals see what our poor eyes can see; and they, the true individuals, – they belong not to this world of our merely human sense and thought.
Of this our true individual life, our present life is a glimpse, a fragment, a hint, and in its best moments a visible beginning.
I teach at Harvard that the world and the heavens, and the stars are all real, but not so damned real, you see.
The world, as transformed by this creative deed, is better than it would have been had all else remained the same, but had that deed of treason not been done at all.
So far as we live and strive at all, our lives are various, are needed for the whole, and are unique.
If I look to see what I ever did that, for all I now know, some other man might not have done, I am utterly unable to discover the certainly unique deed.
I always get more applause than votes.
Our will makes constantly a sort of agreement with the world, whereby, if the world will continually show some respect to the will, the will shall consent to be strenuous in its industry.