But I Like It Because It Is

It Perhaps Might Be Said--if Any One Dared--that The Most Worthless Literature Of The World Has Been That Which Has Been Written By The Men Of One Nation Concerning The Men Of Another.

The Fact Has Not Created In Me A Sense Of Obligation.

A Learned Man Came To Me Once. He Said, "i Know The Way, -- Come." And I Was Overjoyed At This. Together We Hastened. Soon, Too Soon, Were We Where My Eyes Were Useless, And I Knew Not The Ways Of My Feet. I Clung To The Hand Of My Friend; But At Last He Cried, "i Am Lost.

Doubtless There Are Other Roads.

There Is Nothing- No Life, No Joy, No Pain- There Is Nothing Save Opinion, And Opinion Be Damned.