The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only comes through them, and what came through them was longing. These things- the beauty, the memory of our own past- are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found.
- C. S. Lewis,
The Weight of Glory
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