In every human being, whether emperor or cowboy, prince or
pauper, philosopher or slave, there is a mysterious something
which he neither understands nor controls. It may lie dormant
for so long as to be almost forgotten; it may be so repressed
that the man supposes it is dead.
But one night he is alone in the desert under the starry sky;
one day he stands with bowed
head and damp eyes beside an open grave; or there comes an
hour when he clings with desperate instinct to the wet rail of a
storm - tossed boat, and suddenly out of the forgotten depths of
his being this mysterious something leaps forth. It over - reaches
habit; it pushes aside reason, and with a voice that will not be
denied it cries out its questionings and its prayer.
What Can a Man Believe?, Barton