"...when you, in the midst of the holiday, are bearing your solitude more heavily than usual. But if then you notice that it is great, rejoice because of this; for what (ask yourself) would solitude be that had no greatness; there is but one solitude, and that is great, and not easy to bear, and to almost everybody come hours when they would gladly exchange it for any sort of intercourse, however banal and cheap, for the semblance of some slight accord with the first comer, with the unworthiest...But perhaps those are the very hours when solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of springtimes. But that must not mislead you. The necessary thing is after all but this: solitude, great inner solitude. Going-into-oneself and for hours meeting no one -- this one must be able to attain. To be solitary, the way one was solitary as a child..."
And on love...
"To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it....But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is -- solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves. Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate --?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world for himself for another's sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things..."
I will have to think on all of this, but there is certainly something here that speaks to me, and is even comforting, though I am not sure comfort is his aim.
Have a pleasant day, everyone.
1:35. Just finished reading the last week of Ceej's journal. If any of you enjoyed the 15 Worst Romance Novel Lines, you should probably check out her August 31st entry with samples of "It Came From the Slush Pile!" Another point from her journal -- she started a liquid fast diet a few days ago. I'm worried about her. I'm going to write to her and find out if a doctor has approved this thingie. Thirdly, she reminded me that I hadn't addressed the Princess Diana death.
Of course, I don't have to. I don't usually keep up with what's going in the real world, after all, and I certainly don't address it in this journal. I find that I do want to discuss it a little, because I think it's sad.
Note that I said sad, not tragic. Sad and almost pathetic, to be honest. She strikes me as a woman who despite all of her privilege, was placed in a very difficult situation. I wouldn't like to try to preserve a romantic relationship under such a fierce media eye. I doubt many marriages could have survived what she and Charles went through. I admire her attempts to maintain her dignity through all the squalor and shouting. I admire her humanitarian efforts. I don't hate the media -- I've been a journalist myself. But I think there's a line that shouldn't be crossed, a place where the public's right to know intersects with an individual's right to privacy. And I think her right to privacy, her right to live her own life, was infringed upon. That's sad, and unfair, and it makes me angry. It's emblematic of a greater problem, I think -- a disregard for individual liberties, a mob mentality. It worries me.