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I do not like proper novels. In proper novels people say things like, ‘I am veined with iron, with silver and with streaks of common mud. I cannot contract into the firm fist which those clench who do not depend on stimulus.’ What does this mean? I do not know. Nor does Father. Nor do the people who write these books.
Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.
The great use of life is to spend it for some thing that overlasts it.