He Who Loves The More Is The

Yes, They Are Carnal, Both Of Them, Love And Death, And Therein Lies Their Terror And Their Great Magic!

Solitude Gives Birth To The Original In Us, To Beauty Unfamiliar And Perilous - To Poetry. But Also, It Gives Birth To The Opposite: To The Perverse, The Illicit, The Absurd.

Has The World Ever Been Changed By Anything Save The Thought And Its Magic Vehicle The Word?

The Accouterments Of Life Were So Rich And Varied, So Elaborated, That Almost No Place At All Was Left For Life Itself. Each And Every Accessory Was So Costly And Beautiful That It Had An Existence Above And Beyond The Purpose It Was Meant To Serve – Confusing The Observer And Absorbing Attention.

The Observations And Encounters Of A Devotee Of Solitude And Silence Are At Once Less Distinct And More Penetrating Than Those Of The Sociable Man; His Thoughts Are Weightier, Stranger, And Never Without A Tinge Of Sadness. Images And Perceptions Which Might Otherwise Be Easily Dispelled By A Glance, A Laugh, An Exchange Of Comments, Concern Him Unduly, They Sink Into Mute Depths, Take On Significance, Become Experiences, Adventures, Emotions.