Out Of The Lowest Depths There Is

Nothing Is More Terrible Than Activity Without Insight.

Every Man Has A Coward And Hero In His Soul.

Imperfection Clings To A Person, And If They Wait Till They Are Brushed Off Entirely, They Would Spin For Ever On Their Axis, Advancing Nowhere.

Authors Are The Vanguard In The March Of Mind, The Intellectual Backwoodsmen, Reclaiming From The Idle Wilderness New Territories For The Thought And Activity Of Their Happier Brethren.

But Deepest Of All Illusory Appearances, For Hiding Wonder, As For Many Other Ends, Are Your Two Grand Fundamental World-enveloping Appearances, Space And Time. These, As Spun And Woven For Us From Before Birth Itself, To Clothe Our Celestial Me For Dwelling Here, And Yet To Blind It, Lie All-embracing, As The Universal Canvas, Or Warp And Woof, Whereby All Minor Illusions, In This Phantasm Existence, Weave And Paint Themselves. In Vain, While Here On Earth, Shall You Endeavor To Strip Them Off; You Can, At Best, But Rend Them Asunder For Moments, And Look Through.