And, better yet, to
myself and for myself, I believe it. I know it. The last least part
of me and all of me proclaims it.
Love IS wonderful. It is the everlasting and miraculous amazement.
Oh, trust me, I know the old, hard scientific method of weighing and
calculating and classifying love. It is a profound foolishness, a
cosmic trick and quip, to the contemplative eye of the philosopher--
yes, and of the futurist. But when one forsakes such intellectual
flesh-pots and becomes mere human and male human, in short, a lover,
then all he may do, and which is what he cannot help doing, is to
yield to the compulsions of being and throw both his arms around love
and hold it closer to him than is his own heart close to him. This
is the summit of his life, and of man's life. Higher than this no
man may rise. The philosophers toil and struggle on mole-hill peaks
far below. He who has not loved has not tasted the ultimate sweet of
living. I know. I love Margaret, a woman. She is desirable.
CHAPTER L
In the past twenty-four hours many things have happened.
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