I Have Gone To The Forest.

Love Is Every Bit As Violent And Dangerous As Murder.

I Have Gone To The Forest.

Great Men Are Excellent Topics Of Conversation, But The Superior Man, The Superior Men, The Masters, The Universal Spirits On Horseback, Have To Stop And Search Their Memories Merely To Know Who These So-called Great Men Might Be. And So The Great Man Is Left With The Crowd, The Worthless Majority...for His Admirers.

There Are Some People Who Cannot Help Giving. Why? Because They Experience A Real Psychological Pleasure In Doing So. They Don't Do It With An Eye To Their Own Advantage, They Do It On The Quiet; They Detest Doing It Openly Because That Would Take Away Some Of The Satisfaction. They Do It In Secret, With Quick Trembling Hands, Their Breasts Rocked By A Spiritual Well Being Which They Do Not Themselves Understand.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.