I protest against any absolute conclusion.

Those bitter sorrows of childhood!-- when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

History repeats itself.

There's good chances and bad chances, and nobody's luck is pulled only by one string.

All meanings, we know, depend on the key of interpretation.

So to live is heaven; to make undying music in the world.

With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame.