There Is No Loneliness Like The Loneliness

There Are Things And There Are Faces Which, When Felt Or Seen For The First Time, Stamp Themselves Upon The Mind Like A Sun Image On A Sensitized Plate And There Remain Unalterably Fixed.

The Food That Memory Gives To Eat Is Bitter To The Taste, And It Is Only With The Teeth Of Hope That We Can Bear To Bite It.

We Run To Place And Power Over The Dead Bodies Of Those Who Fail And Fall; Ay, We Win The Food We Eat From Out The Mouths Of Starving Babes.

Man's Cleverness Is Almost Indefinite, And Stretches Like An Elastic Band, But Human Nature Is Like An Iron Ring. You Can Go Round And Round It, You Can Polish It Highly, You Can Even Flatten It A Little On One Side, Whereby You Will Make It Bulge Out The Other, But You Will Never, While The World Endures And Man Is Man, Increase Its Total Circumference.

Man Doeth This And Doeth That From The Good Or Evil Of His Heart; But He Knows Not To What End His Sense Doth Prompt Him; For When He Strikes He Is Blind To Where The Blow Shall Fall, Nor Can He Count The Airy Threads That Weave The Web Of Circumstance. Good And Evil, Love And Hate, Night And Day, Sweet And Bitter, Man And Woman, Heaven Above And The Earth Beneath--all Those Things Are Needful, One To The Other, And Who Knows The End Of Each?