Tonight I was feeling depressed, so I broke out my flute and calligraphy brush. It's probably a good way just of making myself feel more depressed, because practicing I was able to hear and see really how rusty I've become. From time to time, I remind myself of all the things I used to do -- writing, poetry, calligraphy, Greek, Latin, flute, Chinese -- and then eventually lost interest in. Writing especially reminds me of the past, of all these things that are literally past, because I so rarely do it any more -- but it embodies the spirit that drove me to all of these things -- the spirit of reflection, which becomes the desire to work myself into a point and push that through, a longing for excellence -- and that was the meaning in or of all the things I successively applied myself to. Why I've abandoned them, in fact -- because it was excellence first that I was after -- excellence and reputation, virtue. Pure excellence, pure reputation are nothing. ...