And Then, At Night, The Lit Lamp

In The World It Is Called Tolerance, But In Hell It Is Called Despair...the Sin That Believes In Nothing, Cares For Nothing, Seeks To Know Nothing, Interferes With Nothing, Enjoys Nothing, Hates Nothing, Finds Purpose In Nothing, Lives For Nothing, And Remains Alive Because There Is Nothing For Which It Will Die.

A Person Who Tells A Secret, Swearing The Recipient To Secrecy In Turn, Is Asking Of The Other Person A Discretion Which He Is Abrogating Himself.

Books... Are Like Lobster Shells, We Surround Ourselves With 'em, Then We Grow Out Of 'em And Leave 'em Behind, As Evidence Of Our Earlier Stages Of Development.

Perhaps [the Critics Are Right And] The Drama Is Played Out Now And Jesus Is Safely Dead And Buried. Perhaps. It Is Ironical And Entertaining To Consider That At Least Once In The World's History Those Words Might Have Been Said With Complete Conviction, And That Was On The Eve Of The Resurrection.

One Must Not Only Die Daily, But Every Day We Must Be Born Again.