He pictured life as faultless marble, granite of even grain, out of which he could hew his own image with the hard chisel of will; and instead he finds a lump of mucky dung in his hands which either cannot be molded, or which, molded indeed, will not hang together. Too much idealism, say the wiseacres who have gotten used to the smell. And “too much” is right! Young men die of that “too much” more often than of the little piece of lead they shoot through their hearts. But verily I say unto you: there is no surer sign of “smallness” of nature than contentment with everything. Peace can come only when youth is over, when the cycle of inner and outer experience has been completed, when we find solace for the eternal nothingness of things, in exquisite enjoyment of the Now that will never return again.
– Giovanni Papini
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