Perhaps Only People Who Are

In Every Great Novel, Who Is The Hero All The Time? Not Any Of The Characters, But Some Unnamed And Nameless Flame Behind Them All.

What The Eye Doesn't See And The Mind Doesn't Know, Doesn't Exist.

The Living Self Has One Purpose Only: To Come Into Its Own Fullness Of Being, As A Tree Comes Into Full Blossom, Or A Bird Into Spring Beauty, Or A Tiger Into Lustre.

Why, Oh Why Must One Grow Up, Why Must One Inherit This Heavy, Numbing Responsibility Of Living An Undiscovered Life? Out Of The Nothingness And The Undifferentiated Mass, To Make Something Of Herself! But What? In The Obscurity And Pathlessness To Take A Direction! But Whither? How Take Even One Step? And Yet, How Stand Still? This Was Torment Indeed, To Inherit The Responsibility Of One’s Own Life.

The Novel Is The Highest Example Of Subtle Interrelatedness That Man Has Discovered.