"Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it’ll be the longest day of the year." She looked at us radiantly.
"Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it."
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Once one is caught up into the material world not one person in ten thousand finds the time to form literary taste, to examine the validity of philosophic concepts for himself, or to form what, for lack of a better phrase, I might call the wise and tragic sense of life.
The idea that to make a man work you've got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. We've done that for so long that we've forgotten there's any other way.
