Let A Man In A Garret But

The Beauty Of The Mountain Is Hidden For All Those Who Try To Discover It From The Top, Supposing That, One Way Or An Other, One Can Reach This Place Directly. The Beauty Of The Mountain Reveals Only To Those Who Climbed It.

Pure Logic Is The Ruin Of The Spirit.

The Job Has Its Grandeurs, Yes. There Is The Exultation Of Arriving Safely After A Storm, The Joy Of Gliding Down Out Of The Darkness Of Night Or Tempest Toward A Sun-drenched Alicante Or Santiago; There Is The Swelling Sense Of Returning To Repossess One's Place In Life, In The Miraculous Garden Of Earth, Where Are Trees And Women And, Down By The Harbor, Friendly Little Bars. When He Has Throttled His Engine And Is Banking Into The Airport, Leaving The Somber Cloud Masses Behind, What Pilot Does Not Break Into Song?

In Every Crowd Are Certain Persons Who Seem Just Like The Rest, Yet They Bear Amazing Messages.

Sometimes We Behave As Though There Was Something More Important Than Life. But What?