The Wind In The Grain Is The

How Could There Be Any Question Of Acquiring Or Possessing, When The One Thing Needful For A Man Is To Become - To Be At Last, And To Die In The Fullness Of His Being.

War Is Not An Adventure. It Is A Disease. It Is Like Typhus.

You're Beautiful, But You're Empty.... No One Could Die For You.

For, To Conceited Men, All Other Men Are Admirers.

There Is A Cheap Literature That Speaks To Us Of The Need Of Escape. It Is True That When We Travel We Are In Search Of Distance. But Distance Is Not To Be Found. It Melts Away. And Escape Has Never Led Anywhere. The Moment A Man Finds That He Must Play The Races, Go The Arctic, Or Make War In Order To Feel Himself Alive, That Man Has Begin To Spin The Strands That Bind Him To Other Men And To The World. But What Wretched Strands! A Civilization That Is Really Strong Fills Man To The Brim, Though He Never Stir. What Are We Worth When Motionless, Is The Question.