ABSTRACT
By stages, imperceptibly and largely unexamined, gradually and organically, the revolutionary life withdraws into itself. Tests, checks and questions cease to refer outward and instead to turn in, to assay purity. Reality at this point is brittle, and still some apostatise with fearful personal consequences, open to vistas of lives consumed and laid desolate, utter hopelessness for some. Between a journey and a pilgrimage there lies only the effort of mind and spirit, a mere tilting of the glass. And, despite every trick of mind and reflex, should that shift occur, the vision shatters. The pilgrim finds himself in the world of ordinary little cares, the longing of the spirit unsatisfied but quenched.
