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Is all our writing but a coloured veil thrown over the gaunt grey face of life? Those who can only see its hard, unsmiling features declare it to be so. They find its eyes bitter wells of tears wherein heavy shadows brood. Was it for this that they flung away so recklessly the breath that returned again and again to their bodies? If they were right, then indeed we are but decorators who paint an orange sun in a darkened room.

-- Notebooks Category 12: Reflections > Chapter 5: The Literary Work > # 183

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