We Persians Have A Saying That One

At The Stair-foot Hephaistion Was Waiting. He Happened To Be There, As He Happened To Have A Ball Handy If Alexander Wanted A Game, Or Water If He Was Thirsty; Not By Calculation, But In A Constant Awareness By Which No Smallest Trifle Was Missed. Now, When He Came Down The Stairs With A Shut Mouth And Blue Lines Under His Eyes, Hephaistion Received Some Mute Signal He Understood, And Fell Into Step Beside Him.

It Gives Me No Joy To Be Praised At The Expense Of A Better Artist, By Someone Who Does Not Know The Difference Or Who Thinks Me Too Vain To Be Aware Of It Myself.

One Might Have Supposed That The True Act Of Love Was To Lie Together And Talk.

Change Is The Sum Of The Universe, And What Is Of Nature Ought Not To Be Feared. But One Gives It Hostages, And Lays One's Grief Upon The Gods. Sokrates Is Free, And Would Have Taught Me Freedom. But I Have Yoked The Immortal Horse That Draws The Chariot With A Horse Of Earth; And When The One Falls, Both Are Entangled In The Traces.

To Hate Excellence Is To Hate The Gods.