Even my friends began to seem to me marvelous. People's being themselves, year after year, so powerfully and so obliviously -- what was it? Why was it so appealing? Personality, like beauty, was a mystery; like beauty, it was useless. These useless things were not, however, flourishes and embellishments to our life here, but that life's center; they were its truest note, the heart of its form, which drew back our thoughts repeatedly.
from annie dillard's an american childhood
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