You Look Back And See How Hard

The Greatest Of The Arts Is The Conquering Of Men.

Life Is So Short. I Would Rather Sing One Song Than Interpret The Thousand.

Deep In The Forest A Call Was Sounding, And As Often As He Heard This Call, Mysteriously Thrilling And Luring, He Felt Compelled To Turn His Back Upon The Fire And The Beaten Earth Around It, And To Plunge Into The Forest, And On And On, He Knew Not Where Or Why; Nor Did He Wonder Where Or Why, The Call Sounding Imperiously, Deep In The Forest.

I Did Not Begin When I Was Born, Nor When I Was Conceived. I Have Been Growing, Developing, Through Incalculable Myriads Of Millenniums... All My Previous Selves Have Their Voices, Echoes, Promptings In Me... Oh, Incalculable Times Again Shall I Be Born.

The Trouble With Him Was That He Was Without Imagination. He Was Quick And Alert In The Things Of Life, But Only In The Things, And Not In The Significances. Fifty Degrees Below Zero Meant Eighty-odd Degrees Of Frost. Such Fact Impressed Him As Being Cold And Uncomfortable, And That Was All. It Did Not Lead Him To Meditate Upon His Frailty As A Creature Of Temperature, And Upon Man's Frailty In General, Able Only To Live Within Certain Narrow Limits Of Heat And Cold; And From There On It Did Not Lead Him To The Conjectural Field Of Immortality And Man's Place In The Universe.