Cruelty, I Truly Believe, Is The One

Nothing Is More Consuming, Or More Illogical, Than The Desire For Remembrance.

I Hated The Things They Believe In, The Things They So Innocently And Charmingly Pretended. I Hated The Sanctimonious Piety That Let People Hurt Helpless Creatures. I Hated The Prayers And The Hymns - The Fountains And The Red Images That Coloured Their Drab Music, The Fountains Filled With Blood, The Sacrifice Of The Lamb.

Idealism, That Gaudy Coloring Matter Of Passion, Fades When It Is Brought Beneath The Trenchant White Light Of Knowledge. Ideals, Like Mountains, Are Best At A Distance.

Words, Like Acts, Become Stale When They Are Repeated.

The Transcendental Point Of View, The Habit Of Thought Bred By Communion With Earth And Sky, Had Refined The Grain While It Had Roughened The Husk.