He Was A Silent Fury Who No

Life? Bah! It Has No Value. Of Cheap Things It Is The Cheapest. Everywhere It Goes Begging. Nature Spills It Out With A Lavish Hand. Where There Is Room For One Life, She Sows A Thousand Lives, And It's Life Eats Life Till The Strongest And Most Piggish Life Is Left.

The Most Beautiful Stories Always Start With Wreckage.

He Was A Silent Fury Who No Torment Could Tame.

It Is So Much Easier To Live Placidly And Complacently. Of Course, To Live Placidly And Complacently Is Not To Live At All.

Bog-lights, Vapors Of Mysticism, Psychic Overtones, Soul Orgies, Wailings Among The Shadows, Weird Gnosticisms, Veils And Tissues Of Words, Gibbering Subjectivisms, Gropings And Maunderings, Ontological Fantasies ... This Is The Stuff, The Phantasms Of Hope, That Fills Your Book Shelves. Look At Them, All The Sad Wraiths Of Sad Mad Men And Passionate Rebels — Your Schopenhauers, Your Strindbergs, Your Tolstois And Nietzsches. Come. Your Glass Is Empty. Fill And Forget.