The very people we pass in the street once, it may be never to pass again, the stream of faces that flows past us in London--has all that no real connection with our life, except to stir a faint and vague emotion about the size of life and our own infinitesimal share in it?
I think it must be something more.

Of course, one lets drop grain after grain of golden truth that God slips into our hands.

I keep feeling that if we could only truly yield ourselves up for a single instant, put ourselves utterly and wholly in God's hands for a second, the meaning of the whole would flash upon us, and our lesson would be learnt.

I think perhaps that comes in death.

I remember the only time I took an anaesthetic (when the body really momentarily dies--that is, the functions are temporarily suspended), the great sensation was, after a brief passage of storm and agony, the sense of serenity and repose upon a lesson learnt, a truth grasped, so remote and so connected with infinite ideas, that the coming back into life was like the waking after years of experience; a phantom emotion, I expect; but, like many phantoms, a very good copy of the real one.
That is what I expect dying to be like.
"I was going to say that I try not to let even little things--things that are thrust in my way curiously and without apparent reason that is--go uninterpreted.