[ He'd come to the library on a whim thanks to a conversation he'd had earlier. It reminded him of something, something he'd been considering ever since he landed in this place. Now the urge to read the entire selection itself was far too tempting. So there he was, volume in hand as he thumbed through the pages in search for that one passage.
You're in for a little poetry today, it seems, inmates. ]
The mind is in its own place, and in itself Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free: the Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
[ And the volume is closed with a decisive thud. He takes a moment to set it down before taking his glasses off and wiping them with a handkerchief. ]
I can't help but wonder if any of you have considered that little passage in reference to our plight. It came to mind, earlier. Should we accept our fate as it is and make the most of the situation or should we fight to regain our freedom? It is after all, what we make of this place.