I Would Rather That My Spark Should

I Am A Hopeless Materialist. I See The Soul As Nothing Else Than The Sim Of Activities Of The Organism Plus Personal Habits - Plus Inherited Habits, Memories, Experiences, Of The Organism. I Believe That When I Am Dead, I Am Dead. I Believe That With My Death I Am Just As Much Obliterated As The Last Mosquito You And I Squashed.

And At The Instant He Knew, He Ceased To Know.

When, On The Still Cold Nights, He Pointed His Nose At A Star And Howled Long And Wolf-like, It Was His Ancestors, Dead And Dust, Pointing Nose At Star And Howling Down Through The Centuries And Through Him. And His Cadences Were Their Cadences, The Cadences Which Voiced Their Woe And What To Them Was The Meaning Of The Stillness, And The Cold, And Dark.

Cruelty, As A Fine Art, Has Attained Its Perfect Flower In The Trained-animal World.

Avoid The Unhappy Ending, The Harsh, The Brutal, The Tragic, The Horrible -- If You Care To See In Print Things You Write. (in This Connection Don't Do As I Do, But Do As I Say.