The Mere Attempt To Examine My Own

For In The Immediate World, Everything Is To Be Discerned, For Him Who Can Discern It, And Central And Simply, Without Either Dissection Into Science, Or Digestion Into Art, But With The Whole Of Consciousness, Seeking To Perceive It As It Stands: So That The Aspect Of A Street In Sunlight Can Roar In The Heart Of Itself As A Symphony, Perhaps As No Symphony Can: And All Of Consciousness Is Shifted From The Imagined, The Revisive, To The Effort To Perceive Simply The Cruel Radiation Of What Is.

The Mere Attempt To Examine My Own Confusion Would Consume Volumes.

It's Kind Of A Test, Mary, And It's The Only Kind That Amounts To Anything. When Something Rotten Like This Happens, Then You Have Your Choice. You Start To Really Be Alive, Or You Start To Die. That's All.

In Every Child Who Is Born, No Matter What Circumstances, And Of No Matter What Parents, The Potentiality Of The Human Race Is Born Again: And In Him, Too, Once More, And Of Each Of Us, Our Terrific Responsibility Toward Human Life; Toward The Utmost Idea Of Goodness, Of The Horror Of Terror, And Of God.

He Used This Great, Sad, Motionless Face To Suggest Various Related Things: A One-track Mind Near The Track's End Of Pure Insanity; Mulish Imperturbability Under The Wildest Of Circumstances; How Dead A Human Being Can Get And Still Be Alive . . .