Good-bye... Why Am I Hemorrhaging ?

And When The War Broke Out, Its Real Horrors, Its Real Dangers, Its Menace Of Real Death Were A Blessing Compared With The Inhuman Reign Of The Lie, And They Brought Relief Because They Broke The Spell Of The Dead Letter.

No Single Man Makes History. History Cannot Be Seen, Just As One Cannot See Grass Growing. Wars And Revolutions, Kings And Robespierres, Are History's Organic Agents, Its Yeast. But Revolutions Are Made By Fanatical Men Of Action With One-track Mind, Geniuses In Their Ability To Confine Themselves To A Limited Field. They Overturn The Old Order In A Few Hours Or Days, The Whole Upheaval Takes A Few Weeks Or At Most Years, But The Fanatical Spirit That Inspired The Upheavals Is Worshiped For Decades Thereafter, For Centuries.

I Have Been Writing In Spurts, Bit By Bit. It Is Incredibly Difficult. Everything Is Corroded, Broken, Dismantled; Everything Is Covered With Hardened Layers Of Accumulated Insensitivity, Deafness, Entrenched Routine. It Is Disgusting.

Failure To Love Is Almost Like Murder.

I Have The Impression That If He Didn't Complicate His Life So Needlessly, He Would Die Of Boredom.