And by disbelief I do not mean some
sort of brave rejection
of the doctrine, some defiant demand flung at heaven for possession
of one's own soul; I mean merely the impotence
of an imagination that finds the very notion
of sin incomprehensible, the conscience
of a man who is sure that, whatever sin might be, it surely lies lightly upon a soul as decent as his own, and can be brushed off with a single casual stroke
of a primly gloved hand; I mean an habitual insensibility to the illuminations and chastisements
of beauty, a condition
of being wholly at home in a world from which mystery and sin and glory have all been banished, and in which spiritual wretchedness has become material
contentment.
I'm starting to think the secret
of contentment is not learning how to «escape» from life but to enjoy it for what it is — not
sorting out the conditions just so, finding someway to stop the boat's rocking, but learning to keep your balance no matter how smooth or rough the seas.