In this our life there are no beginnings but only departures
entitled beginnings, wreathed in the formal emotions thought to be appropriate
and often forced. Darkly rises each moment from the life which has been lived
and which does not die, for each event lives in the heavy head forever, waiting
to renew itself.
What was the freedom to which the adult human being rose in
the morning, if each act was held back or inspired by the overpowering ghost of
a little child?
Delmore Schwartz
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