A False Friend, An Unjust Judge, A

Talent Has The Four Seasons: Spring, That Is To Say, The Sowing Of The Seeds; Summer, Growth; Autumn, The Harvest; Winter, Intellectual Death. But There Is Now And Then A Genius Who Has No Winter, And, No Matter How Many Years He May Live, On The Blossom Of His Thought No Snow Falls. Genius Has The Climate Of Perpetual Growth.

Martyrdom, As A Rule, Establishes The Sincerity Of The Martyr, Never The Correctness Of His Thought. Things Are True Or False In Themselves.

Instead Of Loving A God, We Love Each Other. Instead Of The Religion Of The Sky-the Religion Of This World-the Religion Of The Family-the Love Of Husband For Wife, Of Wife For Husband-the Love Of All For Children. So That Now The Real Religion Is: Let Us Live For Each Other; Let Us Live For This World Without Regard For The Past And Without Fear For The Future. Let Us Use Our Faculties And Our Powers For The Benefit Of Ourselves And Others, Knowing That If There Be Another World, The Same Philosophy That Gives Us Joy Here Will Make Us Happy There.

All That Is Necessary, As It Seems To Me, To Convince Any Reasonable Person That The Bible Is Simply And Purely Of Human Invention - Of Barbarian Invention - Is To Read It. Read It As You Would Any Other Book; Think Of It As You Would Of Any Other; Get The Bandage Of Reverence From Your Eyes; Drive From Your Heart The Phantom Of Fear; Push From The Throne Of Your Brain The Cowled Form Of Superstition - Then Read The Holy Bible, And You Will Be Amazed That You Ever, For One Moment, Supposed A Being Of Infinite Wisdom, Goodness And Purity, To Be The Author Of Such Ignorance And Of Such Atrocity.

The Record Of A Generous Life Runs Like A Vine Around The Memory Of Our Dead, And Every Sweet Unselfish Act Is Now A Perfumed Flower.