To Write Is A Humiliation.

We Can Only Write Well About Our Sins Because It Is Too Difficult To Recall A Virtuous Act Or Even Whether It Was The Result Of Good Or Evil Motives.

Man Is At The Nadir Of His Stregth When The Earth, The Seas, The Mountains Are Not In Him, For Without Them His Soul Is Unsourced, And He Has No Images By Which To Abide.

Who Has Enough Credit In This World To Pay For His Mistakes?

We Are Uneasy With An Affectionate Man, For We Are Positive He Wants Something Of Us, Particularly Our Love.

There Are Men That Are Birds, And Their Raiment Is Trembling Feathers, For They Show Their Souls To Everyone And Everything That Is Ungentle Or Untutored Or Evil Or Mockery Is As A Rude Stone Cast At Them, And They Suffer All Day Long, Or As Paul Remarks They Are Slain Every Moment.