The ideals and objectives of yesterday were still ideas of today, but they lost some of their lustre and even, they lost the shining beauty which had warmed the heart and vitalised the body.
Without that passion and urge, there us a gradual oozing out of hope and vitality, a setting down on lower levels of existence, a slow merging into nonexistence. We become prisoners of the past and some part of its immobility sticks to us.
Language is something infinitely greater than grammar and philosophy. It is the poetic testament of a culture, and the living embodiment of the thoughts and fancies that have moulded them.