I have thought of that often; but it is not monotony, and it is not variety makes beauty.

What is it?
The sky, and your face, and this box--the same thing is in them all, only more in the sky and in your face.

But what is it ?" She smiled.
"So you are at your old work still.

Why, why, why?
What is the reason?
It is enough for me," she said, "if I find out what is beautiful and what is ugly, what is real and what is not.

Why it is there, and over the final cause of things in general, I don't trouble myself; there must be one, but what is it to me?
If I howl to all eternity I shall never get hold of it; and if I did I might be no better off.