A Poor Man With Nothing In His

[t]he Cradle Is Shallower Than The Grave.

Only The Present Counts.

When Writing Of Oneself One Should Show No Mercy. Yet Why At The First Attempt To Discover One's Own Truth Does All Inner Strength Seem To Melt Away In Floods Of Self-pity And Tenderness And Rising Tears?

And What Have You Laymen Made Of Hell? A Kind Of Penal Servitude For Eternity, On The Lines Of Your Convict Prisons On Earth, To Which You Condemn In Advance All The Wretched Felons Your Police Have Hunted From The Beginning - Enemies Of Society, As You Call Them. You're Kind Enough To Include The Blasphemers And The Profane. What Proud Or Reasonable Man Could Stomach Such A Notion Of God's Justice? And When You Find That Notion Inconvenient It's Easy Enough For You To Put It On One Side. Hell Is Not To Love Any More, Madame. Not To Love Any More!

Faith Is Not A Thing Which One Loses, We Merely Cease To Shape Our Lives By It.