We all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or some new motive is born.
Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.
But human experience is usually paradoxical, that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk or even current philosophy.
In spite of his practical ability, some of his experience had petrified into maxims and quotations.
Is it not rather what we expect in men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by side and never compare them with each other?
My own experience and development deepen everyday my conviction that our moral progress may be measured by the degree in which we sympathize with individual suffering and individual joy.
How is it that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections?