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I snatched up this passage from Hawthorne’s “Blithedale Romance” for its fitting description of the state I sometimes wonder if we’re trapped in:
I was beginning to lose the sense of what kind of a world it was, among innumerable schemes of what it might or ought to be. It was impossible, situated where we were, not to imbibe the idea that everything in nature and human existence was fluid, or fast becoming so; that the crust of the Earth, in many places, was broken, and its whole surface portentously upheaving; that it was a day of crisis, and that we ourselves were in the critical vortex.
I appreciate how, with all his irresolution and weakness, Coverdale persistently pierces the novel with his voice of experience and reason, though to his colleagues this may be equivocated as cynical, lazy, uninspired, uncommitted, or even counterrevolutionary. I won’t say I’m like Coverdale–no “sagacious man” here–but I do often feel the same, and, too, desire to break out of and away from the groups in which I dwell.