The State Is Not In Itself An

Joy Mingled With Sadness, Even With Grief, Is The Deepest Human Joy. It Winds Itself About The Soul With Indescribable Sweetness, With A Dim But Unerring Sense For What Will Some Day Be Born Of It.

All Translating Seems To Me To Be Simply An Attempt To Accomplish An Impossible Task.

It Is Resignation And Contentment That Are Best Calculated To Lead Us Safely Through Life. Whoever Has Not Sufficient Power To Endure Privations, And Even Suffering, Can Never Feel That He Is Armor Proof Against Painful Emotions,--nay, He Must Attribute To Himself, Or At Least To The Morbid Sensitiveness Of His Nature, Every Disagreeable Feeling He May Suffer.

It Is An Absolutely Vain Endeavor To Attempt To Reconstruct Or Even Comprehend The Nature Of A Human Being By Simply Knowing The Forces Which Have Acted Upon Him. However Deeply We Should Like To Penetrate, However Close We Seem To Be Drawing To Truth, One Unknown Quantity Eludes Us: Man's Primordial Energy, His Original Self, That Personality Which Was Given Him With The Gift Of Life Itself. On It Rests Man's True Freedom; It Alone Determines His Real Character.

Man Is More Disposed To Domination Than Freedom; And A Structure Of Dominion Not Only Gladdens The Eye Of The Master Who Rears And Protects It, But Even Its Servants Are Uplifted By The Thought That They Are Members Of A Whole, Which Rises High Above The Life And Strength Of Single Generations.