The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd. The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself or some one else, as he chooses. [. . . ] The solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singular intoxication in this universal communion. [. . . ] What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire. . . to the unexpected as it comes along, the stranger as he passes.
I get pissed off. I simply do not understand someone who hits a ball that lands behind a tree and can look at it and say, "Well, that's golf".