Why should we not believe that each generation of men
Springing from the maternal furrow in its season
Keeps a common secret, a changeless knot in the hidden texture of its wood?
(Or rather I think of a carpet whose maker disposes the colors one after the other)
—And a baby is weaned at eleven months, but the weaning of the spirit is slower.
And till he learns to forage for himself (the amount being equal to the expenditure) the breast is not taken away, the communication with the source.
—So if you put your ear against my heart—... But I myself am full of sorrow.
Cébès: We are going further and further.
Simon: As for me, I have never tried to fathom
What lay in the heart of anyone, young or old.