In the life of each of us, I said to myself, there is a place remote and islanded, and given to endless regret or secret happiness; we are each the uncompanioned hermit and recluse of an hour or a day; we understand our fellows of the cell to whatever age of history they may belong.
It was mortifying to find how strong the habit of idle speech may become in one’s self. One need not always be saying something in this noisy world.
Sarah Orne Jewett, born on this day in 1849, from her book, The Country of the Pointed Firs


No comments:
Post a Comment