God Changes Appearances Every Second. Blessed Is

Cursed Be All Those On Land And Sea Who Eat Their Fill, Cursed Be All Those Who Starve Yet Raise No Hand In Protest, Cursed Be All The Bread, The Wine, The Meat Which Day By Day Descends Deep In The Entrails Of The Exploited Man And Turns Not Into Freedom's Cry, The Murderer's Ruthless Knife!

The Canary Is Like A Man's Soul. It Sees Bars Around It, But Instead Of Despairing, It Sings.

To Cleave That Sea [the Aegean] In The Gentle Autumnal Season, Murmuring The Name Of Each Islet, Is To My Mind The Joy Most Apt To Transport The Heart Of Man Into Paradise.

Within This Arena, Which Grows More Stable Night After Day, Generations Work And Love And Hope And Vanish. New Generations Tread On The Corpses Of Their Fathers, Continue The Work Above The Abyss And Struggle To Tame The Dread Mystery. How? By Cultivating A Single Field, By Kissing A Woman, By Studying A Stone, An Animal, An Idea.

Two Equally Steep And Bold Paths May Lead To The Same Peak. To Act As If Death Did Not Exist, Or To Act Thinking Every Minute Of Death, Is Perhaps The Same Thing.