Cruelty, As A Fine Art, Has Attained

The Hand Descended. Nearer And Nearer It Came. It Touched The Ends Of His Upstanding Hair. He Shrank Down Under It. It Followed Down After Him, Pressing More Closely Against Him. Shrinking, Almost Shivering. He Still Managed To Hold Himself Together. It Was A Torment, This Hand That Touched Him And Violated His Instinct. He Could Not Forget In A Day All The Evil That Had Been Wrought Him At The Hands Of Men.

I Do Not Live For What The World Thinks Of Me, But For What I Think Of Myself.

He Was Mastered By The Sheer Surging Of Life, The Tidal Wave Of Being, The Perfect Joy Of Each Separate Muscle, Joint, And Sinew In That It Was Everything That Was Not Death, That It Was Aglow And Rampant, Expressing Itself In Movement, Flying Exultantly Under The Stars.

Mercy Did Not Exist In The Primordial Life. It Was Misunderstood For Fear, And Such Misunderstandings Made For Death.

You Can't Wait For Inspiration. You Have To Go After It With A Club.