It Is A Sad Thing To Want

And Then He Sank Back And Tried, As Usual, Not To Think. He Must Succeed. That's What The World Was Made For. That's What He Was Made For. That Was What He Would Have To Do.

Innate Sensuousness Rarely Has Any Desire For Accuracy, No Desire For Precise Information. It Basks In Sunshine, Bathes In Color, Dwells In A Sense Of The Impressive And The Gorgeous, And Rests There. Accuracy Is Not Necessary Except In The Case Of Aggressive, Acquisitive Natures, When It Manifests Itself In A Desire To Seize. True Controlling Sensuousness Cannot Be Manifested In The Most Active Dispositions, Nor Again In The Most Accurate.

I Sacrifice To The God Of Beauty — The Impulse To Beauty In Nature. Here Are Flowers. Here Is Wine Spilled On The Floor. I Will Burn Incense & Myrhh. I Will Kneel & Strike My Breast & Touch The Dust With My Forehead. I Will I Will! Only Do Not Forsake Me, Oh God Of Beauty.

How True It Is That Words Are But The Vague Shadows Of The Volumes We Mean.

We Who Feel That Justice Is Not Being Done Have But One Thing To Do: That Is Fight, By Argument, By Example, By Insistence On Fair Play Wherever We Have The Power To Do So. The Rest Is In The Hands Of The Lord, Or Nature, Which Swings, Apparently, From One Extreme To Another.