The darkness is not hidden even from itself; though it sees naught else it sees itself. The works of darkness follow it, and there is no hiding place from it, not even in the darkness. This is "the worm that dieth not"—the memory of the past. Once it gets within, or rather is born within though sin, there it stays and never by any means can be plucked out. It never ceases to gnaw the conscience; feeding on it as on food that never can be consumed it prolongs the life of misery. I shudder as I contemplate this biting worm, this never-dying death. I shudder at the thought of this being the victim of this living death, this dying life.
St. Bernard: On Consideration.
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