I speak here only of an emotion, and of an emotion at once stubborn and subtle.

But the repetition in Nature seemed sometimes to be an excited repetition, like that of an angry schoolmaster saying the same thing over and over again.
The grass seemed signalling to me with all its fingers at once; the crowded stars seemed bent upon being understood.

The sun would make me see him if he rose a thousand times.

The recurrences of the universe rose to the maddening rhythm of an incantation, and I began to see an idea.
All the towering materialism which dominates the modern mind rests ultimately upon one assumption; a false assumption.

It is supposed that if a thing goes on repeating itself it is probably dead; a piece of clockwork.