The writer is the Faust of modern society, the only surviving individualist in a mass age. To his orthodox contemporaries he seems a semi-madman. |
They don't ask much of you. They only want you to hate the things you love and to love the things you despise. |
What for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but the irresistible power of unarmed truth. |
What is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup. |
Work is the order of the day, just as it was at one time, with our first starts and our best efforts. Do you remember? Therein lies its delight. It brings back the forgotten; one's stores of energy, seemingly exhausted, come back to life. |
You fall into my arms. / You are the good gift of destruction's path, / When life sickens more than disease / And boldness is the root of beauty- / Which draws us together. |