Each Man Must Look To Himself To

There Is A Cheap Literature That Speaks To Us Of The Need Of Escape. It Is True That When We Travel We Are In Search Of Distance. But Distance Is Not To Be Found. It Melts Away. And Escape Has Never Led Anywhere. The Moment A Man Finds That He Must Play The Races, Go The Arctic, Or Make War In Order To Feel Himself Alive, That Man Has Begin To Spin The Strands That Bind Him To Other Men And To The World. But What Wretched Strands! A Civilization That Is Really Strong Fills Man To The Brim, Though He Never Stir. What Are We Worth When Motionless, Is The Question.

Only The Children Know What They Are Looking For.

What Torments Me Is Not The Humps Nor Hollows Nor The Ugliness. It Is The Sight, A Little Bit In All These Men, Of Mozart Murdered.

Are Wars... Anything But The Means Whereby A Nation's Problems Are Set, Where Creation Is Stimulated - There You Have Adventure. But There Is No Adventure In Heads-or-tails, In Betting That The Toss Will Come Out Of Life Or Death. War Is Not An Adventure. It Is A Disease. It Is Like Typhus.

I Have Always Learned To Distinguish The Important From The Urgent.