Theophilus North

All men aspire to excellence. All men strive to incorporate elements of the Absolute into their lives. These efforts are doomed to failure

Mr. Dexter, after I graduated from college I went to Rome for a year to study archaeology. Our professor took us out into the country for a few days to teach us how to dig. We dug and dug. After a while we struck what was once a much traveled road over two thousand years ago—ruts, milestones, shrines. A million people must have passed that way . . . laughing . . . worrying . . . planning . . . grieving. I’ve never been the same since. It freed me from the oppression of vast numbers and vast distances and big philosophical questions beyond my grasp. I’m content to cultivate half an acre at a time.”

“I am a Protestant, Bodo. My father and my ancestors went about grandly telling others where their duty lay. I hope that will never be said of me.”

On the way home, buoyed up by good old Henry and by the consciousness of having made a new friend in Edweena, I recalled a theory that I had long held and tested and played with—the theory of the Constellations: a man should have three masculine friends older than himself, three of about his own age, and three younger. And he should have three older women friends, three of his own age, and three younger. These twice-nine friends I call his Constellation

They can translate the words, they cannot translate what we hear who love the language.” I

I will try. But a man of thirty has cages and cages

the translation too. “Ee er san”—with a downward, then upward glide—“See. Gee—der—gaw”—with a rising inflection. “Hu” (a descending note) “li too bay. Nu chi fo n’ yu” and so on. The first seven words are all the Chinese I know. They mean: “one, two, three, four, chicken—egg—cake.” “Mademoiselle, this means: “All nature is one. Every living thing is closely related to every other living thing. Nature wishes every living thing to be a perfect example of its kind and to rejoice in the gift of life. That includes Galloper’s fish and Jacqueline and Bayard and everybody here, including you and Galloper and me.” Those were not the words of Confucius or Mencius, but a paraphrase of something remembered from Goethe

I thought suddenly, “Of course, all those twenty years Penelope had Telemachus growing up beside her.”

In the part of the country I come from men don’t wear them—only Catholic men wear them. I’ve never been married anyway

I’m not stupid; I’m only ignorant