Letter February 13, 2014

It was simply absurd, the notion that I could outgrow my depression and resentment simply by having a rational discussion or two, or by reading a book. What was required was nothing less than a second childhood, a rebirth, and this gestation is the longest and the most difficult — for it is the true birth, the birthing of oneself from one’s own womb, from one’s deepest trials but also according to one’s highest attainments and aims, to one’s most jubilant joys.

We are only entitled to that which we have earned by sweat and blood, by exerting the entire force of our being; nothing comes for free, and nothing should (the great souls love the difficult and the most difficult—they settle for nothing less). This, and no price is too dear for the honour of owning ourselves, for being able to tie the past and future into a holy ring, resounding into the furthest recesses of existence a thunderous Yes!

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