An introspective and terribly beautiful look at the human soul and what it means to be alive. Inspired by Terence, but laced throughout too with Plato and Homer and echoes of the Christ to come. I will be thinking about this one for a while.

The living too are dead and we can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasure; for our hearts are not strong enough to love every moment.

Then Chrysis, the serene, the happily dead, seeing the tear that stood in the eyes of Pamphilus, could go no further, and before them all she wept as one weeps who after an absence of folly and self-will returns to a well-loved place and an old loyalty. It was true, true beyond a doubt, tragically true, that the world of love and virtue and wisdom was the true world and her failure in it all the more overwhelming. But she was not alone; he too saw the long and failing war as she did.

I have known the worst that the world can do to me, and nevertheless I praise the world and all living. All that is, is well.

Triumph had passed from Greece and wisdom from Egypt, but with the coming on of night they seemed to regain their lost honors, and the land that was soon to be called Holy prepared in the dark its wonderful burden.