Real sorrow ends neither with a bang nor a whimper. Sometimes, after a spiritual journey like Dante's, down to the centre and then, terrace by terrace, up the mountain of accepted pain, it may rise into peace—but a peace hardly less severe than itself. Sometimes it remains for life, a puddle in the mind which grows always wider, shallower, and more unwholesome. Sometimes it just peters out, as other moods do. One of these alternatives has grandeur, but not tragic grandeur.
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Excerpts drawn from the writings of C.S. Lewis as noted above; used with permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
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