The Whisper Of The Blood And The

I Have Had Much To Learn From Sweden's Poetry And, More Especially, From Her Lyrics Of The Last Generation.

No, I Don't Admire The Genius. But I Admire And Love The Result Of The Genius's Activity In The World, Of Which The Great Man Is Only The Poor Necessary Tool, Only, So To Speak, The Paltry Awl To Bore With.

The Other One He Loved Like A Slave, Like A Madman And Like A Beggar. Why? Ask The Dust On The Road And The Falling Leaves, Ask The Mysterious God Of Life; For No One Knows Such Things. She Gave Him Nothing, No Nothing Did She Give Him And Yet He Thanked Her. She Said: Give Me Your Peace And Your Reason! And He Was Only Sorry She Did Not Ask For His Life.

I Suffered No Pain, My Hunger Had Taken The Edge Off; Instead I Felt Pleasantly Empty, Untouched By Everything Around Me And Happy To Be Unseen By All. I Put My Legs Up On The Bench And Leaned Back, The Best Way To Feel The True Well-being Of Seclusion. There Wasn't A Cloud In My Mind, Nor Did I Feel Any Discomfort, And I Hadn't A Single Unfulfilled Desire Or Craving As Far As My Thought Could Reach. I Lay With Open Eyes In A State Of Utter Absence From Myself And Felt Deliciously Out Of It.

Love Is Every Bit As Violent And Dangerous As Murder.