I'm Kim. I'm kicking it out in Fort Collins at Colorado State University and loving every minute of it. I love horses, science, Ke$ha, glitter, butts, great quotes, and brilliant minds. Consider this my stream of consciousness.
And the people under the sky were also very much the same…everywhere, all over the world, hundreds or thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another’s existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the same — people who had never learned to think but were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the world.
I don’t admit that my failure proved my view to be a wrong one, or that my success would have made it a right one; thought that’s how we appraise such attempts nowadays—I mean, not by their essential soundness, but by their accidental outcomes.
What does it matter, when you come to think of it, whether a child is yours by blood or not? All the little ones of our time are collectively the children of us adults of the time, and entitled to our general care. That excessive regard of parents for their own children, and their dislike of other people’s, is like class-feeling, patriotism, save-your-own-soul-ism, and other virtues, a mean exclusiveness at bottom.
It is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—-its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone…
Dull thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose.
You can’t understand. How could you?—with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums—how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man’s untrammelled feet may take him into by the way of solitude—utter solitude without a policeman—by the way of silence—utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion: These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness.
You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from the earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of air: and imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even on instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would have scarcely begun.
And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.
I can’t tell you anything about fairness. It mayn’t have been fair I should have been born. I take up some other fellow’s air, don’t I, whenever I breathe? Still, I’m glad it’s happened, and I’m glad I’m out here. However big a badmash one is — if one’s happy in consequence, that is some justification.