And At The Instant He Knew, He

Life Is Not A Matter Of Holding Good Cards, But Sometimes, Playing A Poor Hand Well.

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.

Fear Urged Him To Go Back, But Growth Drove Him On.

Do You Know The Only Value Life Has Is What Life Puts Upon Itself? And It Is Of Course Overestimated, For It Is Of Necessity Prejudiced In Its Own Favour. Take That Man I Had Aloft. He Held On As If He Were A Precious Thing, A Treasure Beyond Diamonds Of Rubies. To You? No. To Me? Not At All. To Himself? Yes. But I Do Not Accept His Estimate. He Sadly Overrates Himself. There Is Plenty More Life Demanding To Be Born. Had He Fallen And Dripped His Brains Upon The Deck Like Honey From The Comb, There Would Have Been No Loss To The World. The Supply Is Too Large.

I Was Five Years Old The First Time I Got Drunk.