“And you’re sure it will suggest something?”
Her great eyes burned like coals as she turned them on me in protest at the question.
“Suggest something? You might as well ask if the air suggests something. It suggests that I breathe it; but I don’t have to think of it beforehand, when the whole world is full of it.”
“Full of what?”
She considered the question, finding in it all I meant to put there.
“I don’t know,” she answered at last. “That is, I don’t know in any sense that would go into a few words. There’s so much of it. The minute you try to express it from any one point of view you find you’re inadequate.”
I was still seeking light.
“But when you try to do it from several points of view—correlating them?”
“Even then—” She paused, reflecting, shaking her head as she went on again, as if to shake away a consciousness of the impossible. “I don’t try. There’s no use in trying. It’s so immense—so far beyond me. It’s grown so, too. When it first began I could more or less compass it—or, I thought I could. Now it’s become like nature—or God—or any of the colossal infinite conceptions—it means different things to different minds.”