Cries Of Despair, Misery, Sobbing Grief Are

On A Day Of Burial There Is No Perspective--for Space Itself Is Annihilated. Your Dead Friend Is Still A Fragmentary Being. The Day You Bury Him Is A Day Of Chores And Crowds, Of Hands False Or True To Be Shaken, Of The Immediate Cares Of Mourning. The Dead Friend Will Not Really Die Until Tomorrow, When Silence Is Round You Again. Then He Will Show Himself Complete, As He Was--to Tear Himself Away, As He Was, From The Substantial You. Only Then Will You Cry Out Because Of Him Who Is Leaving And Whom You Cannot Detain.

The Injustice Of Defeat Lies In The Fact That Its Most Innocent Victims Are Made To Look Like Heartless Accomplices. It Is Impossible To See Behind Defeat, The Sacrifices, The Austere Performance Of Duty, The Self-discipline And The Vigilance That Are There - Those Things The God Of Battle Does Not Take Account Of.

It Is Always In The Midst, In The Epicenter, Of Your Troubles That You Find Serenity.

No One Is Ever Satisfied Where He Is.

C'est Véritablement Utile Puisque C'est Joli. It Is Truly Useful Since It Is Beautiful.