My Mistake Was In Ever Opening The

Bog-lights, Vapors Of Mysticism, Psychic Overtones, Soul Orgies, Wailings Among The Shadows, Weird Gnosticisms, Veils And Tissues Of Words, Gibbering Subjectivisms, Gropings And Maunderings, Ontological Fantasies ... This Is The Stuff, The Phantasms Of Hope, That Fills Your Book Shelves. Look At Them, All The Sad Wraiths Of Sad Mad Men And Passionate Rebels — Your Schopenhauers, Your Strindbergs, Your Tolstois And Nietzsches. Come. Your Glass Is Empty. Fill And Forget.

To Be Able To Forget Means Sanity.

And Not Only Did He Learn By Experience, But Instincts Long Dead Became Alive Again. The Domesticated Generations Fell From Him. In Vague Ways He Remembered Back To The Youth Of The Breed, To The Time The Wild Dogs Ranged In Packs Through The Primeval Forest And Killed Their Meat As They Ran It Down.

He Was Always Striving To Attain It. The Life That Was So Swiftly Expanding Within Him, Urged Him Continually Toward The Wall Of Light. The Life That Was Within Him Knew That It Was The One Way Out, The Way He Was Predestined To Tread.

Cruelty, As A Fine Art, Has Attained Its Perfect Flower In The Trained-animal World.