What you see out there is, immediately, how the inside of your head “looks” or “feels.”
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us.
The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders, especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away.
I can’t help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves.
