human
Doctor, --blinded with tears--
gpt
--reaching over to Karl's copy of Faust--
human
I found a letter--a very long letter Karl wrote in those last few days, when he was there--alone. I found it the day I went out to the library alone--the day before they--broke it up. Oh doctor--_what it told!_ I want you to know--
gpt
Can you fancy how I hate the light? Can you fancy with what feelings I wake in the morning and see it come--light from which Karl was shut out--which he craved like that--and could not have? Do you see how it symbolises all those other things taken from him and me? He talked of another light--light he must gain for himself--light which the soul must have. And Karl was longing for the very light I was ready to bring! He would have believed in it--turned to it eagerly--the letter shows that. Do you _wonder_ that there is nothing but darkness in my soul--that I want nothing else? Look at Karl's life! Always cut off just this side of achievement! Every battle stopped right in the hour of victory! Made great only to have his greatness buffetted about like--_held up for sport!_--I _will_ say it! --in fierce response to his protesting gesture--
human
It's true!
gpt
Do you know what I am doing now? She laughed--and none of it had told as much as that laugh revealed.
human
I am making patchwork quilts! Can you fancy anything more worthless in this world than a patchwork quilt?--cutting things up and then sewing them together again, and making them uglier in the end than they were in the beginning? Do you know anything more futile to do with life than that? Well that's where my life is now. My aunt had begun some, and I am finishing them up. And once--once--
gpt
I sit sewing those little pieces together--a foolish thing to do, but one must be doing something, and as I think how useless it is there comes the thought of whether it is any more useless than all the other things in life. Is it any more useless than surgery? For can a great surgeon save his best friend? Is it any more useless than science--for can science do anything for her own? Is it any more useless than ambition and purpose and hope--for does not fate make sport of them all? Is it any more useless than books--for can books reach the hearts which need them most? Is it any more useless than art--for does art reach realities? Is it any more useless than light--for can light penetrate the real darkness? Is it, --she wavered, quivered; she had been talking in low, quick voice, her eyes fixed on something straight ahead, as though reading her words out there before her. And now, as she held back, and he saw what she saw and could not say, he asked for her, slowly:
human
Is it any more useless than love?