Most Men Are Essentially Dead By Thirty.

Love Of My Country Does Not Demand That I Shall Hate And Slay Those Noble And Faithful Souls Who Also Love Theirs.

Leave Your Theories. All Theories, You See, Even Those Of Virtue, Are Bad, Foolish, Mischievous.

The Greatest Book Is Not The One Whose Message Engraves Itself On The Brain, As A Telegraphic Message Engraves Itself On The Ticker-tape, But The One Whose Vital Impact Opens Up Other Viewpoints, And From Writer To Reader Spreads The Fire That Is Fed By The Various Essences, Until It Becomes A Vast Conflagration Leaping From Forest To Forest.

There Is No Joy Other Than The Joy Of Creating. There Is No Man Who Is Truly Alive Other Than One Who Is Creating. All Others Are Just Shadows On The Earth With Nothing To Do With Being Alive. The Joy Of Living, Whether It Is Love Or Action, Is The Joy Of Creating.

If There Is One Place On The Face Of The Earth Where All The Dreams Of Living Men Have Found A Home From The Very Earliest Days When Man Began The Dream Of Existence, It Is India. For More Than 30 Centuries, The Tree Of Vision, With All Its Thousand Branches And Their Millions Of Twigs, Has Sprung From This Torrid Land, The Burning Womb Of The Gods. It Renews Itself Tirelessly Showing No Signs Of Decay.