I had tried to be happy by telling myself that man is an animal, like any other that sought its meat from God. But now I was really happy, for I had learnt that man is a monstrosity. I had been right in feeling all things as odd, for, I myself was at once worse and better than all things.
The optimist’s pleasure was prosaic, for it dwelt on the naturalness of everything; the Christian pleasure was poetic, for it dwelt on the unnaturalness of everything in the light of the supernatural. The modern philosopher had told me again and again that I was in the right place, and I had felt depressed even in acquiescence.
But I had heard I was in the wrong place, and my soul sang for joy, like a bird in spring.
The knowledge …illuminated forgotten chambers in the dark house of (my) infancy. I knew now why grass had always seemed as queer to me as the green beard of a giant. and why I could feel homesick at home.”