"Because, if you had never wanted to do it and never started, or couldn't do it, that would be different. But you have always wanted to, for years and years it's been haunting you. You can do it and you have started it. So, if you stopped now, because you've got into a hard place, it would mean that you hadn't the grit to go on. It would be just plain cowardly. You'll be afraid of the pain and trouble of the effort."
"Well, what of that? What's so specially fine in not being afraid of pain? What's so horrible in being a coward? A coward is often a man who sees values more clearly than the mob. What's so noble in beating after something that won't make you any happier when you've got it? That's all courage is, striving after something difficult or impossible to get."
Herrick came closer and laid both hands on Jean's shoulders.
"It's just a lot of words, Jean, handed down till we swallow them whole, this babble about courage and strength and getting the best of things. Words, words, that's all. The measure of all this courage is a measure of effort, not of accomplishment. According to that theory, a baby that beats its head against a stone wall is brave."
Jean sat silent, held by the same terrible necessity of getting the right words.
"No, it is not just blind fighting. It isn't beating after something that you think's going to make you happy. It's seeing clearly and not being afraid of being unhappy."
"Not being afraid of being unhappy? What else is there to be afraid of? What else matters?"
"Being the best self you have, the very, very best."
"Is it?" His hold on her shoulders tightened, and he said, more to keep that look on her face than for any further interest he had in the subject:
"And this best? There is never any doubt about it? It is always perfectly clear what it is?"