are making a much harder thing of their existence than there is any
need of. There are millions and millions of them, and year after
year, generation after generation, they fight over the same old
battles, live through the same old sorrows. Doesn't it seem all
wrong that after the battle has been fought a million times it can't
be made a little easier for those who still have it before them?

"If a farmer had gone over a bad road, and the next day saw another
farmer about to start over the same road, wouldn't he send him back?
Doesn't it seem too bad that in things which concern one's whole
life people can't be as decent as they are about things which
involve only an inconvenience? Doesn't it seem that when we human
beings have so much in common we might stand together a little
better? I'll tell you what's the matter. Most of the people of this
world are coated round and round with self-esteem, and they're
afraid to admit any understanding of the things which aren't good.
Suppose the farmer had thought it a disgrace to admit he had been
over that road, and so had said: 'From what I have read in books,
and from what I have learned in a general way, I fancy that road
isn't good.' Would the other farmer have gone back? I rather think
he would have said he'd take his chances. But you see the farmer
said he _knew_; and how did he know? Why, because he'd been
over the road himself."

As he paused again, looking at them, he saw it all with a clarifying
simplicity. He himself knew life for a fine and beautiful thing. He
had won for himself some of the satisfactions of understanding,
certain rare delights of the open spirit. He wanted to free the
spirits of these boys to whom he talked; wanted to show them that
spirits could free themselves, indicate to them that self-control