In A Mad World It Always Seems

It Seemed To Scobie That Life Was Immeasurably Long. Couldn’t The Test Of Man Have Been Carried Out In Fewer Years? Couldn’t We Have Committed Our First Major Sin At Seven, Have Ruined Ourselves For Love Or Hate At Ten, Have Clutched At Redemption On A Fifteen-year-old Deathbed?

Like The Characters In Chekhov, They Have No Reserves -– You Learn The Most Intimate Secrets. You Get An Impression Of A World Peopled By Eccentrics, Of Odd Professions, Almost Incredible Stupidities, And, To Balance Them, Amazing Endurances.

If I Stopped Loving Him, I Would Cease To Believe In His Love. If I Loved God, Then I Would Believe In His Love For Me. It's Not Enough To Need It. We Have To Love First, And I Don't Know How. But I Need It, How I Need It.

Its Typical Of Mexico, Of The Whole Human Race Perhaps — Violence In Favour Of An Ideal And Then The Ideal Lost But The Violence Just Going On.

Rocinante Was Of More Value For A True Traveller Than A Jet Plane. Jet Planes Were For Business Men.