They all thought it a plausible and interesting theory. Marian said:
“It seems likely. For do not babies have difficulty in walking, and are conscious of every step, whereas we do it almost automatically?”
“Yes,” I said; “it might be the same with the race.”
I insisted that one could know the truth in certain directions, if one were willing to admit absolute ignorance in others. I felt sure I was immortal, but I had not the least idea how. I would not build up a heaven, hell or universe of the dead, because all these conjectures were likely to be false. I said one could know much and learn more only by admitting one’s limitations.
Of course one could not know, I said, but I myself did not believe in personal immortality with definite memory. It might be so, or it might not.
“I think it is not so,” said Marian, “for we remember nothing definite from before birth.”
“But,” I said, “I feel sure that memory, the essence of memory, will go on; just as our bodies and selves are a memory, so whatever we are in this life will have its consequences, and we will be forever according to what we are now. All progress is a memory—and a prophecy.”
I spoke, too, of the endless stream of every least action, how the least word, once spoken, is a spring of eternal consequence, how each moment is tremendously important. I reminded Marian how she had once said school was so short, it did not much matter what one did; and I had answered her, all life was short.
“Some people think actions under certain conditions—in foreign lands, for instance—do not count.”
Virginia said she lived to enjoy herself, no matter what death might be, but her enjoyment included making others happy. I said, that was the only good way to live, to enjoy oneself, and have a very big idea of what enjoyment meant.