To be really great in little things, to be truly noble and heroic in the insipid details of everyday life, is a virtue so rare as to be worthy of canonization.
What is it that sometimes speaks in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is short? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, or the soul's impulsive throb, as immortality draws on? Be what it may, it rested in the heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty that Heaven was near; calm as the light of sunset, sweet as the bright stillness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only troubled by sorrow for those who loved her so dearly.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote reflects on the deep, calm insights of the soul and its connection to the transient nature of life and the idea of immortality.
Harriet Beecher Stowe's quote explores the profound and serene inner voice that can emerge within us, suggesting an awareness of something beyond our earthly existence. It encapsulates the essence of a gentle certainty about the presence of something divine or eternal, as perceived by a child named Eva, whose heart holds both a peaceful acknowledgement of mortality and a deep love for those around her, highlighting the interconnectedness of life, love, and the inevitability of change.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
During a reflective group discussion on the nature of existence.
More from Harriet Beecher Stowe
All quotes →What's your hurry?" Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in," said Miss Ophelia.
So much has been said and sung of beautiful young girls, why doesn't somebody wake up to the beauty of old women.
It is generally understood that men don't aspire after the absolute right, but only to do about as well as the rest of the world.
Death! Strange that there should be such a word, and such a thing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, and the next be gone, utterly gone, and forever!
Once, in an age, God sends to some of us a friend who loves in us, not a false imagining, an unreal character, but, looking through all the rubbish of our imperfections, loves in us the divine ideal of our nature, — loves, not the man that we are, but the angel that we may be.
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On this thin, scarcely real and yet so perceptible sensation the whole world hung as on a faintly trembling axis, and this in turn rested on the two people in the room.