William Faulkner says that all great literature is about the human heart in conflict with itself. Maybe all literature, good or bad, is about the human heart in conflict and that is merely a reflection of our own tendencies to want this and that, first one thing and then another, either because we don't know ourselves very well or because we know ourselves too well--know our own fallen nature that constantly cries out for what we don't need or shouldn't have.
My mother once told me that only really dumb people could be completely happy. Maybe only really wise people can be really happy because they've stopped the inner conflict, defeated one part for the other. I suppose if they are content, which is what we really mean when we say happy, then the good angel must have defeated the bad angel. Yes?
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