A friend of mine told me recently of a day he had spent with a
writer famous for the sombre philosophy of his books. In the morning the
writer declared that no day ever passed in which he did not wish that he
had never been born; in the afternoon he had a most excellent opportunity
of being drowned through some trouble with a sailing boat, and he rejected
the chance with almost pathetic eagerness. Yet I daresay he went on
believing that he wished he had never been born. It is not only the
children who live in the world of "Let us make pretend."
No, we are all glad to have come this way once. It is the thought of a
second journey over the same ground that chills us and gives us pause.
Sometimes you will hear men answer, "Yes, if I could have the experience I
have had in this life." By which they mean, "Yes, if I could come back with
the certainty of making all the short cuts to happiness that I now see I
have missed." But that is to vulgarise the question. It is to ask that life
shall not be a splendid mystery, every day of which is
an arch wherethrough
Gleams the untravelled world;
but that it shall be a thoroughly safe three per cent.
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