We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever.
To let the brain work without sufficient material is like racing an engine. It racks itself to pieces.
There’s an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.
But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are alone.