The Special Quality Of Hell Is To

Suddenly The Full Long Wail Of A Ship's Horn Surged Through The Open Window And Flooded The Dim Room—a Cry Of Boundless, Dark, Demanding Grief; Pitch-black And Glabrous As A Whale's Back And Burdened With All The Passions Of The Tides, The Memory Of Voyages Beyond Counting, The Joys, The Humiliations: The Sea Was Screaming.

A Samurai Is A Total Human Being, Whereas A Man Who Is Completely Absorbed In His Technical Skill Has Degenerated Into A ‘function’, One Cog In A Machine.

Dreams, Memories, The Sacred--they Are All Alike In That They Are Beyond Our Grasp. Once We Are Even Marginally Separated From What We Can Touch, The Object Is Sanctified; It Acquires The Beauty Of The Unattainable, The Quality Of The Miraculous. Everything, Really, Has This Quality Of Sacredness, But We Can Desecrate It At A Touch. How Strange Man Is! His Touch Defiles And Yet He Contains The Source Of Miracles.

Pain, I Came To Feel, Might Well Prove To Be The Sole Proof Of The Persistence Of Consciousness Within The Flesh, The Sole Physical Expression Of Consciousness. As My Body Acquired Muscle, And In Turn Strength, There Was Gradually Born Within Me A Tendency Towards The Positive Acceptance Of Pain, And My Interest In Physical Suffering Deepened.

Human Life Is Limited But I Would Like To Live Forever.