Whereas Freud Was For The Most Part

Adventure Is Humdrum And Routine Unless One Assimilates It, Unless One Relates It To A Central Core Which Grows Within And Gives It Contour And Significance. Raw Experience Is Empty, Just As Empty As The Forecastle Of A Whaler As In A Chamber Of A Counting House; For It Is Not What One Does, But In A Manifold Sense, What One Realizes That Keeps Existence From Being Vain And Trivial.

Without Leisure There Can Be Neither Art Nor Science Nor Fine Conversation, Nor Any Ceremonious Performance Of The Offices Of Love And Friendship.

Unable To Create A Meaningful Life For Itself, The Personality Takes Its Own Revenge: From The Lower Depths Comes A Regressive Form Of Spontaneity: Raw Animality Forms A Counterpoise To The Meaningless Stimuli And The Vicarious Life To Which The Ordinary Man Is Conditioned. Getting Spiritual Nourishment From This Chaos Of Events, Sensations, And Devious Interpretations Is The Equivalent Of Trying To Pick Through A Garbage Pile For Food.

The Vast Material Displacements The Machine Has Made In Our Physical Environment Are Perhaps In The Long Run Less Important Than Its Spiritual Contributions To Our Culture.

Without Fullness Of Experience, Length Of Days Is Nothing. When Fullness Of Life Has Been Achieved, Shortness Of Days Is Nothing. That Is Perhaps Why The Young Have Usually So Little Fear Of Death; They Live By Intensities That The Elderly Have Forgotten.