Failure To Love Is Almost Like Murder.

A Corner Draft Fluttered The Flame And The White Fever Of Temptation Upswept Its Angel Wings That Cast A Cruciform Shadow.

Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked Ice Crunching In Pails, The Night That Numbs The Leaf, The Duel Of Two Nightingales, The Sweet Pea That Has Run Wild, Creation's Tears In Shoulder Blades.

I Think That If The Beast Who Sleeps In Man Could Be Held Down By Threats Of Any Kind, Whether Of Jail Or Retribution, Then The Highest Emblem Of Humanity Would Be The Lion Tamer, Not The Prophet Who Sacrificed Himself.... What For Centuries Raised Man Above The Beast Is Not The Cudgel But The Irresistible Power Of Unarmed Truth.

I Have The Impression That If He Didn't Complicate His Life So Needlessly, He Would Die Of Boredom.

No Single Man Makes History. History Cannot Be Seen, Just As One Cannot See Grass Growing. Wars And Revolutions, Kings And Robespierres, Are History's Organic Agents, Its Yeast. But Revolutions Are Made By Fanatical Men Of Action With One-track Mind, Geniuses In Their Ability To Confine Themselves To A Limited Field. They Overturn The Old Order In A Few Hours Or Days, The Whole Upheaval Takes A Few Weeks Or At Most Years, But The Fanatical Spirit That Inspired The Upheavals Is Worshiped For Decades Thereafter, For Centuries.