Outside was the dying light of day, but the glare of
noonday, the quiet light of evening, the black of the night, were all one
to him now. Was it going to be so with his mind, his spirit? Would all
that other light, light of the mind and soul, be gulped into this black
monotone, this nothingness?
He had heard of the beautiful spirit of the blind, of the mastery of fate
achieved, the things they were able, in spite of it all, to gain from
life. Ernestine had read him some of that; he had been glad to hear it,
but it had not moved him much. Most of those people had been blind for a
long time. He too, in the course of ten or twenty years, when the best of
his life was gone, would become accustomed to groping his way about,
reading from those books, and having other people tell him how things
looked. But so long as he remained himself at all how accustom himself to
doing without his work? In the records and stories of the blind, it
seemed if they had a work it was something which they could continue.
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