It Was The Worst Hurt He Had

The Hand Descended. Nearer And Nearer It Came. It Touched The Ends Of His Upstanding Hair. He Shrank Down Under It. It Followed Down After Him, Pressing More Closely Against Him. Shrinking, Almost Shivering. He Still Managed To Hold Himself Together. It Was A Torment, This Hand That Touched Him And Violated His Instinct. He Could Not Forget In A Day All The Evil That Had Been Wrought Him At The Hands Of Men.

Kill Or Be Killed, Eat Or Be Eaten, Was The Law; And This Mandate, Down Out Of The Depths Of Time.

There Is An Ecstasy That Marks The Summit Of Life, And Beyond Which Life Cannot Rise. And Such Is The Paradox Of Living, This Ecstasy Comes When One Is Most Alive, And It Comes As A Complete Forgetfulness That One Is Alive. This Ecstasy, This Forgetfulness Of Living, Comes To The Artist, Caught Up And Out Of Himself In A Sheet Of Flame; It Comes To The Soldier, War-mad In A Stricken Field And Refusing Quarter; And It Came To Buck, Leading The Pack, Sounding The Old Wolf-cry, Straining After The Food That Was Alive And That Fled Swiftly Before Him Through The Moonlight.

The Human Race Is Doomed To Sink Back Farther And Farther Into The Primitive Night Ere Again It Begins Its Bloody Climb Upward To Civilization.

Ever Bike? Now That's Something That Makes Life Worth Living!... Oh, To Just Grip Your Handlebars And Lay Down To It, And Go Ripping And Tearing Through Streets And Road, Over Railroad Tracks And Bridges, Threading Crowds, Avoiding Collisions, At Twenty Miles Or More An Hour, And Wondering All The Time When You're Going To Smash Up. Well, Now, That's Something! And Then Go Home Again After Three Hours Of It... And Then To Think That Tomorrow I Can Do It All Over Again!