Sometimes I call
this reality Science, sometimes I call it Truth. But it is something we
draw by pain and effort ont of the heart of life, that we disentangle
and make clear. Other men serve it, I know, in art, in literature, in
social invention, and see it in a thousand different figures, under a
hundred names. I see it always as austerity, as beauty. This thing we
make clear is the heart of life. It is the one enduring thing. Men and
nations, epochs and civilisation pass each making its contribution I do
not know what it is, this something, except that it is supreme. It is,
a something, a quality, an element, one may find now in colours, now in
norms, now in sounds, now in thoughts. It emerges from life with each
year one lives and feels, and generation by generation and age by age,
but the how and why of it are all beyond the compass of my mind....
Yet the full sense of it was with me all that night as I drove, lonely
above the rush and murmur of my engines, out upon the weltering circle
of the sea.
Far out to the northeast there came the flicker of a squadron of
warships waving white swords of light about the sky.
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