At times the little girl would keep on for hours, babbling and busy with her games—she was absorbed in her own joy with such holy zeal that it seemed as though her play was really more serious than all the pursuits of grown-up people and her delight belonged more essentially to life than all the world’s sorrows. Was it a kind of reflection of a reality which men had obscured and distorted by their own stupid and criminal devices? And it is only in the play of very small children in the early hours of the morning that one sees as it were a mirage of the distant city—life in its archetype.
—from The Wild Orchid by Sigrid Undset, Book 2: Ch. 5