"The storm had been working up not for three days as he supposed, but for six years. It had brewed in the obscurities of being where no eye pierces, his surroundings had thickened it. It had burst and he had not died. The brilliancy of day was around him, he stood upon the mountain range that overshadows youth, he saw.
Hitherto - if human beings can be estimated - he had not been worth anyone's affection, but conventional, petty, treacherous to others, because to himself. Now he had the highest gift to offer. The idealism and the brutality that ran through boyhood had joined at last, and twined into love. No one might want such love, but he could not feel ashamed of it, because it was 'he' working through both. He still suffered, yet a sense of triumph came from elsewhere. Pain had shown him a niche behind the world's judgements, whither he could withdraw."
- E. M. Forster, Maurice (1971, posthumous)