There Seemed Nothing To Do But Live.

Unimaginable Perhaps; But The Unimaginable Is There To Be Imagined.

When All Else Fails, Philosophize.

The End Of Confession Is To Tell The Truth To And For Oneself.

Deprived Of Human Intercourse, I Inevitably Overvalue The Imagination And Expect It To Make The Mundane Glow With An Aura Of Self-transcendence. Yet Why These Glorious Sunsets, I Ask Myself, If Nature Does Not Speak To Us With Tongues Of Fire.

The Barbarians Come Out At Night.