The Individual Is Not A Killer, But

The Life We Led Was A Proof Of Man's Capacity For Adaptation.i Think That Even The Condemned Souls In Purgatory After Time Develop A Sort Of Homely Routine.that Is ,by The Way, Why Most Prison Memoirs Are Unreadable.the Difficulty Of Conveying To The Reader An Idea Of A Nightmare World From Which He Has Emerged Makes The Author Depict The Prisoner's State Of Mind As An Uninterruped Continuity Of Despair.he Fears To Appear Frivolous Or To Spoil His Effect By Admitting That Even In The Depths Of Misery Cheerfulness Keeps Breaking In.

When A Chess Player Looks At The Board, He Does Not See A Static Mosaic, A 'still Life', But A Magnetic Field Of Forces, Charged With Energy - As Faraday Saw The Stresses Surrounding Magnets And Currents As Curves In Space; Or As Van Gogh Saw Vortices In The Skies Of Provence.

One May Not Regard The World As A Sort Of Metaphysical Brothel For Emotions.

Death Tripped Down The Corridor, Changing Step, Struck Out Here And There, Danced Pirouettes; Often I Felt His Breath On My Face When He Was Miles Away; Often I Fell Asleep And Dreamed While He Stood Leaning Over My Bed.

One Of The Tests Of A Theory Is That, Once Grasped, It Appears Self-evident.