He Whom We Call A Gentleman Is

La Poe Sie Veutquelque Chose D'e Norme, Debarbare Et De Sauvage. Poetry Needs Something On The Scale Of The Grand, The Barbarous, The Savage.

Wandering In A Vast Forest At Night, I Have Only A Faint Light To Guide Me. A Stranger Appears And Says To Me: 'my Friend, You Should Blow Out Your Candle In Order To Find Your Way More Clearly.' This Stranger Is A Theologian.

One May Demand Of Me That I Should Seek Truth, But Not That I Should Find It

This Root [the Potato], No Matter How Much You Prepare It, Is Tasteless And Floury. It Cannot Pass For An Agreeable Food, But It Supplies A Food Sufficiently Abundant And Sufficiently Healthy For Men Who Ask Only To Sustain Themselves. The Potato Is Criticized With Reason For Being Windy, But What Matters Windiness For The Vigorous Organisms Of Peasants And Laborers?

Does Anyone Really Know Where They're Going To?