Out Of My Own Great Woe I

Write . . . Write . . . Pencil . . . Paper.

That Was Only The Beginning - Where One Burns Books, One Will Finally Also Burn People.

He That Marries Is Like The Dogs Who Was Married To The Adriatic. He Knows Not What There Is In That Which He Marries; Mayhap Treasures And Pearls, Mayhap Monsters And Tempests, Await Him.

With His Nightcaps And The Tatters Of His Dressing-gown He Patches Up The Gaps In The Structure Of The Universe.

I Have A Most Peaceable Disposition. My Desires Are For A Modest Hut, A Thatched Roof, But A Good Bed, Good Food, Very Fresh Milk And Butter, Flowers In Front Of My Window And A Few Pretty Trees By My Door. And Should The Good Lord Wish To Make Me Really Happy, He Will Allow Me The Pleasure Of Seeing About Six Or Seven Of My Enemies Hanged Upon Those Trees.