“Ada had to admit that, at least now and then, just saying what your heart felt, straight and simple and unguarded, could be more useful than four thousand lines of John Keats. She had never been able to do it in her whole life, but she thought she would like to learn how.”—Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain
When he read the passage, he understood. That was the purpose in it all: every story, poem, sharing of the soul. Somedays he wrote thousands of words; others—only two lines, and the simplest, rawest, and unguarded were the ones that struck most. Then, to give them away—set them free and share—became a liberation of the soul.
For all his life, he had never been able to do it. Then there came a change: a desire to learn, be better, to live as an unguarded soul showing light and shadows of spirit expressed in lines that rose as memories, hopes and dreams, and sometimes monsters from depths he once denied.
He gave of his heart unguarded and, from this, discovered a liberty in life never perceived even as nothing else of his life-condition changed. He had to admit that, at least now and then, just saying what your heart felt straight and simple and unguarded, could be more useful than four thousand lines of John Keats.
It was true.