of making many mistakes

He was gifted with the special capability of making many mistakes, mostly in the right direction. I envied him for this and tried in vain to imitate him.

He himself feared the danger of certain failures, and in fact met them always, but not permitting them to obscure his already-accustomed vision, whose perspective doubt’s smoke ranged amoebously, proved his character worthy, whereby its legitimate object obtained. What was noble was his courage. In the path of antagonisms beyond number, whose strength accrued beyond compare, he proceeded.

I was uncertain whether he showed boldness or rashness; whether I was attracted to his art for its determination to conquer a vision or its indeterminate vision to conquer; whether, ultimately, he preferred crags for their sincere assurances of precipitous falls or for their untrodenness that quickened unshod feet through flaws. Somewhere I saw a pattern in his movements, except in seeing them I saw the vanity of looking.

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