The others, the Materialists, never come near the walls of the box,
except to bang their heads. Their reality is inside. These call life
a thing. The Idealists know that it is a process, and there is not a
tree or a flower or a blade of grass or a road-side weed but proves
them right. It is a process, and the end of it is perfection--nothing
less. The perfection of the physical is approximated to here in this
world, and, after that, the tired hands are folded, and the worn-out
body laid away. But even the very saints of God barely touch, here,
the edges of the possible perfection of the soul. Why, it is that that
lifts us--that possibility of going on and on--out of imaginable
bounds, into glory after glory--until the wisdom of the ages is
foolishness and time has no meaning where, in the reaches of eternity,
the climbing soul thinks with the mind of God.

You were going to cut yourself off from that! At the very start, you
were going to fling away your single glorious chance--you, who told me
that in less than ten of these littlenesses called "years" you might be
allowed to go out into a larger place. Remember, you can't kill your
soul. But, because you have been trusted with personality you can, if
you wish, show an unforgiveable contempt for your beginning life. But,
if you do that--if you treat your single opportunity like that--can you
believe that another will be given you?

You cannot do this thing. I say to you that there are openings in the
box. Find a fissure in the rough wall. Then, look! This isn't
life--only the smallest bit of it. The rest is outside. It is not a
question of God--it is not a question of punishment. It is this--what
are _you_ going to do with your soul?