We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
The fact that an intellect contains a few worms does not detract from its ripeness.[Es spricht nicht gegen die Reife eines Geistes, dass er einige Würmer hat.]