In the novel we can know people perfectly, and, apart from the general pleasure of reading, we can find here a compensation for their dimness in life.
E. M. ForsterThe present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree rustled again.
E. M. ForsterMen yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form.
E. M. Forster