In this fashion she grew, says historical fiction; thus does she flourish now, would say the modern transcript, reading the inner as well as exhibiting the outer.
And how may you know that you have reached to Philosophy?
You touch her skirts when you share her hatred of the sham decent, her derision of sentimentalism.

You are one with her when--but I would not have you a thousand years older! Get to her, if in no other way, by the sentimental route:--that very winding path, which again and again brings you round to the point of original impetus, where you have to be unwound for another whirl; your point of original impetus being the grossly material, not at all the spiritual.

It is most true that sentimentalism springs from the former, merely and badly aping the latter,--fine flower, or pinnacle flame-spire, of sensualism that it is, could it do other?
and accompanying the former it traverses tracts of desert here and there couching in a garden, catching with one hand at fruits, with another at colours; imagining a secret ahead, and goaded by an appetite, sustained by sheer gratifications.

Fiddle in harmonics as it may, it will have these gratifications at all costs.

Should none be discoverable, at once you are at the Cave of Despair, beneath the funereal orb of Glaucoma, in the thick midst of poniarded, slit-throat, rope-dependant figures, placarded across the bosom Disillusioned, Infidel, Agnostic, Miserrimus.