A Rock Pile Ceases To Be A

I Know A Planet Where There Is A Certain Red-faced Gentleman. He Has Never Smelled A Flower. He Has Never Looked At A Star. He Has Never Loved Any One. He Has Never Done Anything In His Life But Add Up Figures. And All Day He Says Over And Over, Just Like You: 'i Am Busy With Matters Of Consequence!' And That Makes Him Swell Up With Pride. But He Is Not A Man - He Is A Mushroom!

He Who Never Says "no" Is No True Man.

Life Always Bursts The Boundaries Of Formulas. Defeat May Prove To Have Been The Only Path To Resurrection, Despite Its Ugliness. I Take It For Granted That To Create A Tree I Condemn A Seed To Rot. If The First Act Of Resistance Comes Too Late It Is Doomed To Defeat. But It Is, Nevertheless, The Awakening Of Resistance. Life May Grow From It As From A Seed.

We Are Forever Responsible For That Which We Have Tamed.

Night, The Beloved. Night, When Words Fade And Things Come Alive. When The Destructive Analysis Of Day Is Done, And All That Is Truly Important Becomes Whole And Sound Again. When Man Reassembles His Fragmentary Self And Grows With The Calm Of A Tree.