The ethereal past had blinded him, and the highest happiness he could dream was a return to it. - E. M. Forster

If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better,

This woman was a goddess to the end. For her no love could be degrading: she stood outside all degradation. This episode, which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for him, remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that without regret he could now have told her that he was her worshipper too. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things had happened. "Thank you," was all that he permitted himself. "Thank you for everything."

Fed by neither Heaven nor by Earth he was going forward . . . He hadn't a God or a lover — the two usual incentives to virtue. But on he struggled with his back to ease, because dignity demanded it. There was no one to watch him, nor did he watch himself, but struggles like his are the supreme achievements of humanity, and surpass any legends about Heavan.