An Honest Man Is One Who Knows

Because I Never Have Any Definite Destination. This Ship Is Not For Going To Places, But For Getting Away From Them. When I Stop At A Port, It's Only For The Sheer Pleasure Of Leaving It. I Always Think: Here's One More Place That Can't Hold Me.

She Fell Asleep, Lying There, Her Hand Clasping His. Her Last Awareness, Before She Surrendered The Responsibility Of Consciousness, Was The Sense Of An Enormous Void, The Void Of A City And Of A Continent, Where She Would Never Be Able To Find The Man Whom She Had No Right To Seek.

You Love Your Work. God Help You, You Love It! And Thats The Curse. That's The Brand On Your Forehead For All Of Them To See. You Love It And They Know It, And They Know They Have You. Do You Ever Look At The People In The Street? Aren't You Afraid Of Them? I Am. They Move Past You And They Wear Hats And They Carry Bundles. But That's Not The Substance Of Them. The Substance Of Them Is Hatred For Any Man Who Loves His Work. That's The Only Kind They Fear. I Don't Know Why

It's A Rare Gift, You Know, To Feel Reverence For Your Own Life And To Want The Best, The Greatest, The Highest Possible, Here, Now, For Your Very Own.

This Was Solidarity. The Debutante Having Her Toenails Pedicured - The Housewife Buying Carrots From A Pushcart - The Bookkeeper Who Had Wanted To Be A Pianist, But Has The Excuse Of A Sister To Support - The Businessman Who Hated His Business - The Worker Who Hated His Work - The Intellectual Who Hated Everybody - All Were United As Brothers In The Luxury Of Common Anger That Cured Boredom And Took Them Out Of Themselves, And They Knew Well Enough What A Blessing It Was To Be Taken Out Of Themselves.