He frowns, thinking -- he hasn't been asked to explain it. Everyone who's spoken of it feels it, too, a more or less pressing awareness of how much can't be done here, all the needs that can't be answered--so much that they barely do speak of it, some of them. But Fantine's asking an honest question, and a fair one.
He lounges onto his side to run a hand through the grass. "This place is real--as real as any world. I have no reason to think otherwise of it. The company is good, I make no quarrel there-- I could ask for none dearer, or better. And it is comfortable , and it is a generous place. But there is something more than comfort, ease, luxury. Those are fine!-- I will never argue for the hair-shirt and the cold bath when there can be silk and steam! But there is more than that; there must be more than that.
"Look-- you've shared in work with others, before being here-- yes? You know what it is, to be busy with work that matters, not because it's a grand purpose, but because it suits you and makes a place in the world. There's a difference in that, a difference between work that builds to something, never mind what other people think of the building, and work done just for a pass-time; a difference between making even a simple apron and making a damn embroidery sampler, however fine; a difference between practice-- who has not balked at dull practice! -- And doing something.
"And it's something else again --something else so far again-- to be doing something that will matter later--never mind planting the seeds, or laying the first tones! just tearing up the ground for a foundation that will come , to see it coming , a ghost of the future-ah! I am a devout idler; ask anyone who knows me , they will swear to it; but for such visions even I will shift my share of a mountain.
"That's what I call true, to throw everything in against that great force of the unknown; better yet, to do so with others in shared spirit-ah! " It's Francoise that makes him break off, the little bird 's feathers starting to ruffle at Bahorel's audible excitement. Bahorel chirps at him again, and smiles a little when the lark hops closer. When he goes on, his voice is softer. "Perhaps it's just because that's what it was to be alive, that it seems to me the only real way to live-- but there it is, and I will not give it up, and I cannot see a way to have it again here, not without pushing the borders we have been given."
no subject
He lounges onto his side to run a hand through the grass. "This place is real--as real as any world. I have no reason to think otherwise of it. The company is good, I make no quarrel there-- I could ask for none dearer, or better. And it is comfortable , and it is a generous place. But there is something more than comfort, ease, luxury. Those are fine!-- I will never argue for the hair-shirt and the cold bath when there can be silk and steam! But there is more than that; there must be more than that.
"Look-- you've shared in work with others, before being here-- yes? You know what it is, to be busy with work that matters, not because it's a grand purpose, but because it suits you and makes a place in the world. There's a difference in that, a difference between work that builds to something, never mind what other people think of the building, and work done just for a pass-time; a difference between making even a simple apron and making a damn embroidery sampler, however fine; a difference between practice-- who has not balked at dull practice! -- And doing something.
"And it's something else again --something else so far again-- to be doing something that will matter later--never mind planting the seeds, or laying the first tones! just tearing up the ground for a foundation that will come , to see it coming , a ghost of the future-ah! I am a devout idler; ask anyone who knows me , they will swear to it; but for such visions even I will shift my share of a mountain.
"That's what I call true, to throw everything in against that great force of the unknown; better yet, to do so with others in shared spirit-ah! " It's Francoise that makes him break off, the little bird 's feathers starting to ruffle at Bahorel's audible excitement. Bahorel chirps at him again, and smiles a little when the lark hops closer. When he goes on, his voice is softer. "Perhaps it's just because that's what it was to be alive, that it seems to me the only real way to live-- but there it is, and I will not give it up, and I cannot see a way to have it again here, not without pushing the borders we have been given."