I did not always know it at the time, for I was
often happy when I was writing a book--but it was, at best, a
rushing, tortured sort of happiness. My great sorrow--what has that
become to me? A beautiful thing, full of patience and hope. What
but that has taught me to learn to live for the moment, to take the
bitter experiences of life as they come, not crushing out the
sweetness and flinging the rind aside, but soberly, desirously,
only eager to get from the moment what it is meant to bring. Even
the very shrinking back from a bitter duty, the indolent rejection
of the thought that touches one's elbow, bidding one again and
again arise and go, means something; to defer one's pleasure, to
break the languid dream, to take up the tiny task, what strength is
there! Thus no burden seems too heavy, too awkward, too slippery,
too ill-shaped, but one can lift it. The yoke is easy, because one
bears it in quiet confidence, not overtaxing ability or straining
hope. Instead of watching life, as from high castle windows,
feeling it common and unclean, not to be mingled with, I am in it
and of it. And what is become of all my old dreams of art, of the
secluded worship, the lonely rapture! Well, it is all there,
somehow, flowing inside life, like a stream that is added to a
river, not like a leat drawn aside from the current.
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