I Feel The Flame Of Eternity In

Trying To Write Is Very Much Like Trying To Put A Chinese Puzzle Together. We Have A Pattern In Mind Which We Wish To Work Out In Words; But The Words Will Not Fit The Spaces, Or, If They Do, They Will Not Match The Design.

I Hung About The Dangerous Frontier Of "guess," Avoiding With Infinite Trouble To Myself And Others The Broad Valley Of Reason.

Everybody Talks, Nobody Listens. Good Listeners Are As Rare As White Crows.

If We Make Up Our Minds That This Is A Drab And Purposeless Universe, It Will Be That, And Nothing Else. On The Other Hand, If We Believe That The Earth Is Ours, And That The Sun And Moon Hang In The Sky For Our Delight, There Will Be Joy Upon The Hills And Gladness In The Fields Because The Artist In Our Souls Glorifies Creation. Surely, It Gives Dignity To Life To Believe That We Are Born Into This World For Noble Ends, And That We Have A Higher Destiny Than Can Be Accomplished Within The Narrow Limits Of This Physical Life.

When We Do The Best That We Can, We Never Know What Miracle Is Wrought In Our Life, Or In The Life Of Another.