I toiled and forgot myself for a time, and
did many things. Science too has been something of an irresponsive
mistress since, though I've served her better than I served Marion. But
at the time Science, with her order, her inhuman distance, yet steely
certainties, saved me from despair.
Well, I have still to fly; but incidentally I have invented the lightest
engines in the world.
I am trying to tell of all the things that happened to me. It's hard
enough simply to get it put down in the remotest degree right. But this
is a novel, not a treatise. Don't imagine that I am coming presently
to any sort of solution of my difficulties. Here among my drawings and
hammerings NOW, I still question unanswering problems. All my life has
been at bottom, SEEKING, disbelieving always, dissatisfied always with
the thing seen and the thing believed, seeking something in toil, in
force, in danger, something whose name and nature I do not clearly
understand, something beautiful, worshipful, enduring, mine profoundly
and fundamentally, and the utter redemption of myself; I don't know--all
I can tell is that it is something I have ever failed to find.
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