I went back and re-read this last night and was still thinking about it today, so I think it’s worth noting here. From The Island of the Mighty, by Evangeline Walton (Chapter 2 of The Loves of Blodeuwedd: The Coming of Goronwy Pevr)
… and they were happy there.
It is a small word, “happy. For one it may mean a kind of pleasant quiet under a lukewarm sun, untroubled by many waspish thoughts or by the ache of great griefs, and never fired by ecstasies. That is a good state, and better than most of us get, but no great thing grows out of it.
Or to be happy may mean to eat life healthily and with gusto, as a hungry man eats a good meal, heedless of the depth or shape of the dishes or of how they were invented, not complaining overmuch if occasionally the meat is tough or over-dry or over-juicy, because the most of it is good, solid nourishment.
Or again, happiness may be a rhythm that sets all the days to music, and makes a dance of movement, a brighter brightness of the sun, a wine in the air and a wonder in the world. As of a veil of glamor thrown suddenly over all things, or the lifting of a curtain that has hid beauty…
