Evil Can Be A Teacher, If You

A Prison! Heav'ns, I Loath The Hated Name, Famine's Metropolis, The Sink Of Shame, A Nauseous Sepulchre, Whose Craving Womb Hourly Inters Poor Mortals In Its Tomb; By Ev'ry Plague And Ev'ry Ill Possess'd, Ev'n Purgatory Itself To Thee 's A Jest.

The Place Where You Lose The Trail Is Not Necessarily The Place Where It Ends.

I Don't See How Anybody Could Have A Passion For Nature Without Having An Equally Developed Tolerance For The Cold.

There Are Paths And Ruts In The Spirit World As There Are In The Physical And Mental World. One Must Take The Tools Of The Spirit World And Make One's Own Path Rather Than Exactly Follow The Paths Of Those Who Once Were . . . You Must Not Seek Their Path And Their Understanding, But You Must Seek Your Own. The Ruts Of The Spirit Are Trying To Follow Others And It Cannot Be Done.

The First Track Is The End Of A String. At The Far End, A Being Is Moving; A Mystery, Dropping A Hint About Itself Every So Many Feet, Telling You More About Itself Until You Can Almost See It, Even Before You Come To It. The Mystery Reveals Itself Slowly, Track By Track, Giving Its Genealogy Early To Coax You In. Further On, It Will Tell You The Intimate Details Of Its Life And Work, Until You Know The Maker Of The Track Like A Lifelong Friend.