Books Are For Nothing But To Inspire

Nature Never Sends A Great Man Into The Planet, Without Confiding The Secret To Another Soul.

We Do Not Yet Possess Ourselves, And We Know At The Same Time That We Are Much More.

We Cannot Describe The Natural History Of The Soul, But We Know That It Is Divine. All Things Are Known To The Soul. It Is Not To Be Surprised By Any Communication. Nothing Can Be Greater Than It, Let Those Fear And Those Fawn Who Will. The Soul Is In Her Native Realm; And It Is Wider Than Space, Older Than Time, Wide As Hope, Rich As Love. Pusillanimity And Fear She Refuses With A Beautiful Scorn; They Are Not For Her Who Putteth On Her Coronation Robes, And Goes Out Through Universal Love To Universal Power.

In Dreams We Are True Poets; We Create The Persons Of The Drama; We Give Them Appropriate Figures Faces, Costumes; They Are Perfect In Their Organs, Attitudes, Manners; Moreover They Speak After Their Own Characters, Not Ours; And We Listen With Surprise To What They Say.

I Pray My Companion, If He Wishes For Bread, To Ask Me For Bread, And If He Wishes For Sassafras Or Arsenic, To Ask Me For Them, And Not To Hold Out His Plate, As If I Knew Already.