One Might Talk About The Sanity Of

Night, In Which Everything Was Lost, Went Reaching Out, Beyond Stars And Sun. Stars And Sun, A Few Bright Grains, Went Spiraling Round For Terror, And Holding Each Other In Embrace, There In A Darkness That Outpassed Them All, And Left Them Tiny And Daunted. So Much, And Himself, Infinitesimal, At The Core Of Nothingness, And Yet Not Nothing.

That Which One Cannot Experience In Daily Life Is Not True For Oneself.

I Am Only Half There When I Am Ill, And So There Is Only Half A Man To Suffer. To Suffer In One's Whole Self Is So Great A Violation, That It Is Not To Be Endured.

I Believe A Man Is Born First Unto Himself - For The Happy Developing Of Himself, While The World Is A Nursery, And The Pretty Things Are To Be Snatched For, And Pleasant Things Tasted; Some People Seem To Exist Thus Right To The End. But Most Are Born Again On Entering Manhood; Then They Are Born To Humanity, To A Consciousness Of All The Laughing, And The Never-ceasing Murmur Of Pain And Sorrow That Comes From The Terrible Multitudes Of Brothers.

You Don't Want To Be An Animal, You Want To Observe Your Own Animal Functions, So As To Get A Mental Thrill Out Of Them. It Is Allpurely Secondary--and More Decadent Than The Most Hide-bound Intellectualism.