“There can be no real movement without a mass of detail. Here we are interested equally in both. They are inseparable.”
“You said yesterday that the seed had been sown and the harvest not yet garnered. Has the seed generally been good seed?”
“There is no telling how much of it will come up. There has been seed, good, bad, and indifferent, sown in all sorts of soil. The crop is not foreordained. We work and hope.”
“Is there anything in this life to any degree a counterpart of what you have there?” his mother inquired. “Or is it something so wholly new that we can’t even imagine it?”
“It is so much more expansive, so much more beautiful and free, that we can give you no conception of it.”
“Perhaps it’s better that we shouldn’t know,” it was suggested; and Frederick’s reply seems to hold a hint of humor.
“It might make you envious.”
When I wondered what became of suicides, Cass said, “They probably get the purgatory he mentioned yesterday.”
“That’s what they get; and it’s a long, hard road back to mental....” The pencil hesitated. After some efforts to write a word beginning with p or f—we were uncertain which—Mrs. Gaylord suggested, “Poise?”
“... poise. Yes.”