Yet, when a man stands in the midst of his own beautifications, in the midst of his own northern airs of taciturnity and reservation, and not in the vanity and shortcoming of a woman's vestures, nor adornments; he is likely to see gliding past him silent, magical creatures whose happiness and seclusion he yearns for- his own mistakes, his own wounds, his own shortcomings: and that is no meager happiness. Yet, even with this yearning, even with that yearning for truth, for innocence in expression, man almost believes that his greater self lives there amongst the shortcomings, the humiliations, and the injuries: in these quiet regions even the fiercest air, even the howling air, turns into deathly silence, and in the most palest of northern snows, where you will find the white bear, youth itself even turns into a dream of youth. How he moves over these hilltops, like an enormous moth into the sun! But what is the sun for him, when there is no such thing as warmth?

— Parodties

#innocence #renewal #youth #death