When we hate a person, what we hate in his image is something inside ourselves. Whatever isn’t inside us can’t excite us.” Demian

Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place? A Room of One's Own

One could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunk back again; then one became like most middle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles between the eyes and a look of perpetual apprehension. For how could one express in words these emotions of the body? express that emptiness there? To the Lighthouse

Neither was a law able to be imposed on the falling rain, that they should not water and overflow the fields of the wicked and unjust. Day's Collacon