Living Is Being Born Slowly. It Would

If Some One Loves A Flower Of Which Just One Example Exists Among All The Millions And Millions Of Stars, That's Enough To Make Him Happy When He Looks At The Stars. He Tells Himself, "my Flower's Up There Somewhere. . . ." But If The Sheep Eats The Flower, Then For Him It's As If, Suddenly, All The Stars Went Out. And That Isn't Important?

Navigating By The Compass In A Sea Of Clouds Over Spain Is All Very Well, It Is Very Dashing, But - You Want To Remember That Below The Sea Of Clouds Lies Eternity.

For I Do Not Want Any One To Read My Book Carelessly. I Have Suffered Too Much Grief In Setting Down These Memories. Six Years Have Already Passed Since My Friend Went Away From Me, With His Sheep. If I Try To Describe Him Here, It Is To Make Sure That I Shall Not Forget Him. To Forget A Friend Is Sad. Not Every One Has Had A Friend. And If I Forget Him, I May Become Like The Grown-ups Who Are No Longer Interested In Anything But Figures.

When I Opened My Eyes I Saw Nothing But The Pool Of Nocturnal Sky, For I Was Lying On My Back With Out-stretched Arms, Face To Face With That Hatchery Of Stars. Only Half Awake, Still Unaware That Those Depths Were Sky, Having No Roof Between Those Depths And Me, No Branches To Screen Them, No Root To Cling To, I Was Seized With Vertigo And Felt Myself As If Flung Forth And Plunging Downward Like A Diver.

The Meaning Of Things Lies Not In The Things Themselves, But In Our Attitude Towards Them In Particular Caused By What We Compare It To: Something Worse And We Feel Grateful For What We Have; Something Better And We Feel Somehow Let Down.