And his working coat so ragged that it would never cling to him but for pure affection. -- To watch him even now makes one feel how terrible is that dumb grief which has never learned to moan. Words--those poor husks of sentiment! For work in the country does not wait on illness--even death claims from its onlookers but a few hours, birth none at all, and it is as well; for what must be must, and in work alone man rests from grief. A private grudge against Time and a personal pleasure in finishing this job. Full day has come again. But the face of it is a little strange, it is not like yesterday. Queer--to think, no day is like to a day that's past and no night like a night that's coming! Why, then, fear death, which is but night? Why care, if next day have different face and spirit? LINES FROM THE TEXT: Blindfolded by its own history Comfortable reassurance that one was still his client Dumb grief which has never learned to moan Gilt-edged orthodoxy Glib assurances that naive souls make so easily to others He have all the pleasure, I have all the work He was asleep, for he knew not remorse In work alone man rests from grief Kind of sporting energy, a defiant spurt Meaning what one says, so necessary to keep dogs virtuous Private grudge against Time Rhythmic nothingness Such were only embroideries of Fate Suddenly he sat down to make sure of his own legs Unholy interest in thus dealing with the lives of my fellow men Why, then, fear death, which is but night? Words--those poor husks of sentiment! CONCERNING LETTERS /gutenberg/etext01/cnlet10.txt Concerning Letters A Novelist's Allegory Some Platitudes Concerning Drama Meditation on Finality Wanted--Schooling On Our Dislike of Things as They Are The Windlestraw PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT: The dreamer spoke to her: "Who are you, standing there in the darkness with those eyes that I can hardly bear to look at? Who are you?"-- And the woman answered: "Friend, I am your Conscience; I am the Truth as best it may be seen by you. I am she whom you exist to serve." A gleam of light, like a faint moonbeam, stole out into the garden of his despair. Nothing, however, is more dubious than the way in which these two words "pessimist" and "optimist" are used; for the optimist appears to be he who cannot bear the world as it is, and is forced by his nature to picture it as it ought to be, and the pessimist one who cannot only bear the world as it is, but loves it well enough to draw it faithfully. LINES FROM THE TEXT: Conscience; I am the Truth as best it may be seen by you Garden of his despair I am myself the Public Often turned it from a picture into a caricature "Pessimist" and "optimist" Told, and therefore must believe ABOUT CENSORSHIP AND VAGUE THOUGHTS ON ART /gutenberg/etext01/cnart10.txt PASSAGES FROM THE TEXT: