Reach Me A Gentian, Give Me A

Nobody Knows You. You Don't Know Yourself. And I, Who Am Half In Love With You, What Am I In Love With? My Own Imaginings?

Any Novel Of Importance Has A Purpose. If Only The "purpose" Be Large Enough, And Not At Outs With The Passional Inspiration.

The Aztec Gods And Goddesses Are, As Far As We Have Known Anything About Them, An Unlovely And Unlovable Lot. In Their Myths There Is No Grace Or Charm, No Poetry. Only This Perpetual Grudge, Grudge, Grudging, One God Grudging Another, The Gods Grudging Men Their Existence, And Men Grudging The Animals. The Goddess Of Love Is Goddess Of Dirt And Prostitution, A Dirt-eater, A Horror, Without A Touch Of Tenderness.

Sanity Means The Wholeness Of The Consciousness. And Our Society Is Only Part Conscious, Like An Idiot.

He Who Gets Nearer The Sun Is Leader, The Aristocrat Of Aristocrats, Or He Who, Like Dostoevsky, Gets Nearest The Moon Of Our Non-being.