Kill Or Be Killed, Eat Or Be

She Was Thrilling To A Desire That Urged Her To Go Forward, To Be In Closer To That Fire, To Be Squabbling With The Dogs, And To Be Avoiding And Dodging The Stumbling Feet Of Men.

There Is Another Way Of Disqualifying The Metaphysicians.... Judge Them By Their Works. What Have They Done For Mankind Beyond The Spinning Of Airy Fancies And The Mistaking Of Their Own Shadows For Gods?

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.

There Are, Broadly Speaking, Two Types Of Drinkers. There Is The Man Whom We All Know, Stupid, Unimaginative, Whose Brain Is Bitten Numbly By Numb Maggots; Who Walks Generously With Wide-spread, Tentative Legs, Falls Frequently In The Gutter, And Who Sees, In The Extremity Of His Ecstasy, Blue Mice And Pink Elephants.... The Other Type Of Drinker Has Imagination, Vision. Even When Most Pleasantly Jingled He Walks Straight And Naturally, Never Staggers Nor Falls, And Knows Just Where He Is And What He Is Doing. It Is Not His Body But His Brain That Is Drunken.

I'd Rather Sing One Wild Song And Burst My Heart With It, Than Live A Thousand Years Watching My Digestion And Being Afraid Of The Wet.