It is a pitiful degeneracy in our modern life that we are not more often transported out of ourselves by the eternal things that surround us.
The potency of memory is that it winnows and purges reality of its grossness, of its dullness, of its poisonous hurtings. Memory seems to retain, in great hushed vases and urns, at the bottom of its being, essences that have the power of redeeming all. And the wind stirs up these essences until their fleeting perfumes mount to our heads and fill us with an indescribable transport.
— From The Philosophy of Solitude (1933), by John Cowper Powys. via THEMISTA