He didn't believe it, he told
himself fiercely; something deep, integral, in him revolted absolutely.
Mina Raff had been wholly justified; the very people who had thrown all
their weight against her admitted it fully. It was only when such a
self-belief was without compensating result, value, that it was wrong.
But who could say what any outcome would be? Some people took the
chance and others didn't; he had not. Then the question came up of
whether he had not failed as it was? No one would agree with him that
it might be failure; he hadn't called it that. Suddenly, vehemently, he
wished that he could grow old at once, in a second; anything to quiet
the restlessness at his heart.
Lee had a conviction that he ought to decide the case of the individual
against the world, the feeling that it was of the greatest importance
to him; but for centuries men had considered, without answer, just
that. The thing to do was to live, not to think; for it was possible
that those who thought, weighed causes and results, hardly lived at all
in the sense he meant. All the people he knew were cautious before they
were anything else; they existed primarily for their stomachs. The
widely advertised beauty of self sacrifice was golden only when it
adorned like a halo the heads of others. That was natural, inevitable
to the struggle for survival; it didn't answer Lee's question, which,
he felt, was of the spirit rather than the body.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88