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[Petruska]

 Only that is spiritual which makes its own form. If I may not find its
secret within myself, I shall never find it: if I have not got it
already, it will never come to me. Reason does not help me. It tells me
that the laws under which I am convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and
the system under which I have suffered a wrong and unjust system. But,
somehow, I have got to make both of these things just and right to me.
And exactly as in Art one is only concerned with what a particular thing
is at a particular moment to oneself, so it is also in the ethical
evolution of one's character. I have got to make everything that has
happened to me good for me. The plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard
ropes shredded into oakum till one's finger-tips grow dull with pain,
the menial offices with which each day begins and finishes, the harsh
orders that routine seems to necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes
sorrow grotesque to look at, the silence, the solitude, the shame--each
a

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