If You Write One Story, It May

So Strong Is The Power Of Superstition That Even Though We Know That We Have Been Reverencing A Sham, Yet Still We Hesitate To Admit The Validity Of Our New-found Convictions.

I Do Not Believe That I Am Made Of The Stuff Which Constitutes Heroes, Because, In All Of The Hundreds Of Instances That My Voluntary Acts Have Placed Me Face To Face With Death, I Cannot Recall A Single One Where Any Alternative Step To That I Took Occurred To Me Until Many Hours Later.

Death, Only, Renders Hope Futile.

This Was Life! Ah, How He Loved It! Civilization Held Nothing Like This In Its Narrow And Circumscribed Sphere, Hemmed In By Restrictions And Conventionalities. Even Clothes Were A Hindrance And A Nuisance. At Last He Was Free. He Had Not Realized What A Prisoner He Had Been.

Fortunate Indeed Are Those In Which There Is Combined A Little Good And A Little Bad, A Little Knowledge Of Many Things Outside Their Own Callings, A Capacity For Love And A Capacity For Hate, For Such As These Can Look With Tolerance Upon All, Unbiased By The Egotism Of Him Whose Head Is So Heavy On One Side That All His Brains Run To That Point.