The Most Fatal Thing A Man Can

For Fear Is A Primary Source Of Evil. And When The Question "who Am I?" Recurs And Is Unanswered, Then Fear And Frustration Project A Negative Attitude. The Bewildered Soul Can Answer Only: "since I Do Not Understand 'who I Am,' I Only Know What I Am Not." The Corollary Of This Emotional Incertitude Is Snobbism, Intolerance And Racial Hate. The Xenophobic Individual Can Only Reject And Destroy, As The Xenophobic Nation Inevitably Makes War.

The Dimensions Of A Work Of Art Are Seldom Realized By The Author Until The Work Is Accomplished. It Is Like A Flowering Dream. Ideas Grow, Budding Silently, And There Are A Thousand Illuminations Coming Day By Day As The Work Progresses. A Seed Grows In Writing As In Nature. The Seed Of The Idea Is Developed By Both Labor And The Unconscious, And The Struggle That Goes On Between Them.

For In A Swift Radiance Of Illumination He Saw A Glimpse Of Human Struggle And Valor. Of The Endless Fluid Passage Of The Humanity Through Endless Time. And Of Those Who Labor And Of Those Who - One Word- Love. His Soul Expanded. But For A Moment Only. For In Him, He Felt A Warning, A Shaft Of Terror.

The Theme Is The Theme Of Humiliation, Which Is The Square Root Of Sin, As Opposed To The Freedom From Humiliation, And Love, Which Is The Square Root Of Wonderful.

I Do Not Have Any Home. So Why Should I Be Homesick?