No Man Is A Man Unless To

The Flood Subsides, And The Body, Like A Worn Sea-shell Emerges Strange And Lovely.

That Is Almost The Whole Of Russian Literature: The Phenomenal Coruscations Of The Souls Of Quite Commonplace People.

If Only We Could Live Two Lives: The First In Which To Make One's Mistakes, And The Second In Which To Profit By Them.

The Aztec Gods And Goddesses Are, As Far As We Have Known Anything About Them, An Unlovely And Unlovable Lot. In Their Myths There Is No Grace Or Charm, No Poetry. Only This Perpetual Grudge, Grudge, Grudging, One God Grudging Another, The Gods Grudging Men Their Existence, And Men Grudging The Animals. The Goddess Of Love Is Goddess Of Dirt And Prostitution, A Dirt-eater, A Horror, Without A Touch Of Tenderness.

One Should Stick By One's Soul, And By Nothing Else. In One's Soul, One Knows The Truth From The Untruth, And Life From Death. And If One Betrays One's Own Soul-knowledge One Is The Worst Of Traitors.