For The Pride Of Trace And Trail

One Cannot Violate The Promptings Of One's Nature Without Having That Nature Recoil Upon Itself.

The Function Of Man Is To Live, Not To Exist.

A Bone To The Dog Is Not Charity. Charity Is The Bone Shared With The Dog, When You Are Just As Hungry As The Dog.

Pursuit And Possession Are Accompanied By States Of Consciousness So Wide Apart That They Can Never Be United.

Bog-lights, Vapors Of Mysticism, Psychic Overtones, Soul Orgies, Wailings Among The Shadows, Weird Gnosticisms, Veils And Tissues Of Words, Gibbering Subjectivisms, Gropings And Maunderings, Ontological Fantasies ... This Is The Stuff, The Phantasms Of Hope, That Fills Your Book Shelves. Look At Them, All The Sad Wraiths Of Sad Mad Men And Passionate Rebels — Your Schopenhauers, Your Strindbergs, Your Tolstois And Nietzsches. Come. Your Glass Is Empty. Fill And Forget.