Then,
while reason and vision still fluttered to and fro, like a pair of
butterflies, first one and then the other leading, he dashed in
between them. He seized handfuls of the flying letters and made the
queerest sentences out of them, longer and faster-moving than the
first ones.
"Time _is_ the arch-deceiver. It drives things past us in a hurrying
flock. We snatch at them. And those we miss seem lost for ever because
some one calls out, in a foolish voice of terror and regret, 'Too
late!' Yet, in reality, _we_ stand still; the rush of the hours is a
sham. We see things out of proportion, like trees from the window of a
train, their beauty hidden in a long, thick smudge. _We_ do not move;
it is the train that hurries us along: the trees are always steadily
there--and beautiful. There is enough of everything for everybody--no
need to try and get there first. To hurry is to chase your tail, which
some one has suggested does not belong to you. It can never be
captured by pursuit. But pause--stand still--it instantly presents
itself, twitches its tip, and laughs: 'I've been here all the time.
I'm part of you!'"
He turned towards the empty chair and smiled.
Pages:
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300