Immensely Grateful, Touched, Proud, Astonished, Abashed.

It Was Not Until After The Coming Of Christ That Time And Humans Could Breathe Freely. It Was Not Until After Him That People Began To Live Toward The Future. Humans Do Not Die In A Ditch Like A Dog-but At Home In History, While The Work Toward The Conquest Of Death Is In Full Swing; They Die Sharing In This Work.

They Don't Ask Much Of You. They Only Want You To Hate The Things You Love And To Love The Things You Despise.

The Writer Is The Faust Of Modern Society, The Only Surviving Individualist In A Mass Age. To His Orthodox Contemporaries He Seems A Semi-madman.

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.