What is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup.
Gregariousness is always the refuge of mediocrities, whether they swear by Solovyov or Kant or Marx. Only individuals seek the truth.
The idea that underlies this is that communion between mortals is immortal, and that the whole of life is symbolic because it is meaningful.
And so it turned out that only a life similar to the life of those around us, merging with it without a ripple, is genuine life, and that an unshared happiness is not happiness...
It is no longer possible for lyric poetry to express the immensity of our experience. Life has grown too cumbersome, too complicated. We have acquired values which are best expressed in prose.