As To Modesty And Decency, If We

The Worshipper Of Energy Is Too Physically Energetic To See That He Cannot Explore Certain Higher Fields Until He Is Still.

The Real World Is Not Easy To Live In. It Is Rough; It Is Slippery. Without The Most Clear-eyed Adjustments We Fall And Get Crushed. A Man Must Stay Sober; Not Always, But Most Of The Time.

The World Of Books Is The Most Remarkable Creation Of Man. Nothing Else That He Builds Ever Lasts. Monuments Fall; Nations Perish; Civilizations Grow Old And Die Out; And, After An Era Of Darkness, New Races Build Others. But In The World Of Books Are Volumes That Have Seen This Happen Again And Again, And Yet Live On, Still Young, Still As Fresh As The Day They Were Written, Still Telling Men's Hearts Of The Hearts Of Men Centuries Dead.

The Artistic Impulse Seems Not To Wish To Produce Finished Work. It Certainly Deserts Us Half-way, After The Idea Is Born; And If We Go On, It Is Labor.

The Egg It Is The Source Of All. Tis Everyone's Ancestral Hall. The Bravest Chief That Ever Fought, The Lowest Thief That E'er Was Caught, The Harlot's Lip, The Maiden's Leg, They Each And All Came From An Egg.