Then the
world and time seem pretty small potatoes.
You see how it is. I never was trained to think, and I get stunned
by thoughts that strike me as being dug right out of the centre.
Sometimes I'd like to write them down; but I can't write; I can only
talk as I'm talking to you. If you weren't so high up, and so much
cleverer than I am, and such a thinker, I'd like you to be my
safety-ring, if you would. I could tell the key-thoughts to you
when they came to me, before I forgot them with all their bearings;
and by-and-by they'd do me a lot of good when I got away from this
influence, and back into the machinery of the Western world again.
If you could come out here, if you could feel what I feel here--and
you would feel a thousand times as much--I don't know what you
wouldn't do.
It's pretty wonderful. The nights with the stars so white and
glittering, and so near that you'd think you could reach up and hand
them down; the dark, deep, blue beyond; such a width of life all
round you, a sort of never-ending space, that everything you ever
saw or did seems little, and God so great in a kind of hovering
sense like a pair of wings; and all the secrets of time coming out
of it all, and sort of touching your face like a velvet wind.
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