...Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons.It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.To regret one39;s own experiences is to arrest one39;s own development. To deny one39;s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one39;s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.Pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask. Truth in art is not any correspondence between the essential idea and the accidental existence; it is not the resemblance of shape to shadow, or of the form mirrored in the crystal to the form itself; it is no echo coming from a hollow hill, any more than it is a silverwell of water in the valley that shows the moon to the moon and Narcissus to Narcissus.We think in eternity, but...