A Girl's Brain Is Mysterious, But Only

It Is The Middle And Pure Height And Whole Of Summer And A Summer Night, The Held Breath, Of A Planet's Year; High Shored Sleeps The Crested Tide: What Day Of The Month I Do Not Know, Which Day Of The Week I Am Not Sure, Far Less What Hour Of The Night.

The Camera Seems To Me, Next To Unassisted And Weaponless Consciousness, The Central Instrument Of Our Time.

Understanding, And Action Proceeding From Understanding And Guided By It, Is One Weapon Against The World's Bombardment, The One Medicine, The One Instrument By Which Liberty, Health, And Joy May Be Shaped . . . In The Individual, And In The Race.

You've Got To Bear It In Mind That Nobody That Ever Lived Is Specially Privileged; The Axe Can Fall At Any Moment, On Any Neck, Without Any Warning Or Any Regard For Justice. You've Got To Keep Your Mind Off Pitying Your Own Rotten Luck And Setting Up Any Kind Of A Howl About It. You've Got To Remember That Things As Bad As This And A Hell Of A Lot Worse Have Happened To Millions Of People Before And That They've Come Through It And That You Will Too.

And No Matter What, There's Not One Thing In This World *or* The Next That We Can Do Or Hope Or Guess At Or Wish Or Pray That Can Change It Or Help It One Iota. Because Whatever Is, Is. That's All. And All There Is Now Is To Be Ready For It, Strong Enough For It, Whatever It May Be. That's All. That's All That Matters. It's All That Matters Because It's All That's Possible.