A Man’s Dying Is More The Survivors’

A Lonely, Quiet Person Has Observations And Experiences That Are At Once Both More Indistinct And More Penetrating Than Those Of One More Gregarious; His Thoughts Are Weightier, Stranger, And Never Without A Tinge Of Sadness. . . . Loneliness Fosters That Which Is Original, Daringly And Bewilderingly Beautiful, Poetic. But Loneliness Also Fosters That Which Is Perverse, Incongruous, Absurd, Forbidden.

Isn't It Grand, Isn't It Good, That Language Has Only One Word For Everything We Associate With Love - From Utter Sanctity To The Most Fleshly Lust? The Result Is Perfect Clarity In Ambiguity, For Love Cannot Be Disembodied Even In Its Most Sanctified Forms, Nor Is It Without Sanctity Even At Its Most Fleshly. Love Is Always Simply Itself, Both As A Subtle Affirmation Of Life And As The Highest Passion; Love Is Our Sympathy With Organic Life.

All Interest In Disease And Death Is Only Another Expression Of Interest In Life.

Nothing Is Stranger Or More Ticklish Than A Relationship Between People Who Know Each Other Only By Sight, Who Meet And Observe Each Other Daily - No Hourly - And Are Nevertheless Compelled To Keep Up The Pose Of An Indifferent Stranger, Neither Greeting Nor Addressing Each Other, Whether Out Of Etiquette Or Their Own Whim.

He Probably Was Mediocre After All, Though In A Very Honorable Sense Of That Word.