 What lesson couldn't be gleaned from this story?
He was strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses, one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied his rear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of the handkerchief pocket. It was this rather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tight surveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of getting his fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayed and chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returning them. By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier complete with photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in an orange patrol car parked down the street. Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. Conformity had become more than a social force; it was a physical necessity. He came to see that genuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his own small efforts, rarer. He had even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantly absurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It was only with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownes to MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre had seen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimly resounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spoke in an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievably trite. "It's like this, MacBride. And if there was a house sitting on such a mountain and if winds did blow, it would shake exactly the way that one does. "No, you don't need a rest," MacBride said. "You're starting to see flying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in your brain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—" At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammed shut. MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for the ghostly babble of voices to commence. It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed and dipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. The house could have been preparing to take off and sail down the.... MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and then they both looked back at the dancing house. It expressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and got neurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. every now and then their eyes widened as the house danced a new step.
 history tends to repeat itself
 no matter how much you strive for perfection, there will always be something preventing it  work on your dreams until they become a reality  history tends to repeat itself  love can accomplish many things