“Before him was the brilliant sky, below, the lake, and all around the horizon, bright and boundless, which had no end.  He gazed a long time and agonized.  He remembered now how he had stretched out his arms to that bright, infinite blueness, and cried.. What tortured him was that he was an utter stranger to all this.  What was this feast, what was this grand, everlasting festival to which there was no end, and which he could never manage to get in on.  Every morning the same bright sun rises, every morning there is a rainbow at the waterfall; every evening the very highest snowy mountain, there, in the distance, at the edge of the sky, glows with a purple flame; every “little bitty fly that buzzes about him in the hot ray of sunshine has its part in the chorus: knows its place, loves it and is happy”; every blade of grass grows and is happy! And everything has its path, and with a song goes forth, and with a song returns; only he knows nothing, and understands nothing, neither men nor sounds; he is a stranger to everything and an outcast”

April 02, 2007