"Oh, Doctor--where is he now? Do you ever think of all that? No one who
has ever loved and lost can remain secure in his materialism. I begin to
see that the beautiful thoughts, the poems, of immortality, eternity, of
its all coming right, have sprung from the lonely hearts of great lovers.
For they would not have it any other way--they could only endure it by
having it so, and, ah, Doctor--far greater than any proof of science or
logic, is there not proof in this? Lifting up their hearts in hours of
desolation were not the men and women born for great loves and great
sorrows granted a vision of the truth?
"We do not know. None of them know. We hope and wait and long for the
years to tell us the truth. And while we wait and hope, we work, and try
to make our lives that which is worthy our love. That endeavour, and that
alone, makes life bearable."
After a year of silence he received this letter: "Doctor, it is finished.
I will not tell you the things they are saying of it here, for you will
read it in the papers.
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