I’d agree to live on the earth for an eternity if they’d show me first a corner where there’s not always room for valor. ‘Universal chicken-heartedness.’ Indeed, this is the panacea, this is the predicate to sublime perfection.
We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it’s one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that’s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that.