History Knew The Truth. History Was The

Within Those Confining Walls, Teachers - A Bunch Of Men All Armed With The Same Information - Gave The Same Lectures Every Year From The Same Notebooks And Every Year At The Same Point In The Textbooks Made The Same Jokes.

When People Concentrate On The Idea Of Beauty, They Are, Without Realizing It, Confronted With The Darkest Thoughts That Exist In This World. That, I Suppose, Is How Human Beings Are Made.

Dreams, Memories, The Sacred--they Are All Alike In That They Are Beyond Our Grasp. Once We Are Even Marginally Separated From What We Can Touch, The Object Is Sanctified; It Acquires The Beauty Of The Unattainable, The Quality Of The Miraculous. Everything, Really, Has This Quality Of Sacredness, But We Can Desecrate It At A Touch. How Strange Man Is! His Touch Defiles And Yet He Contains The Source Of Miracles.

His Conviction Of Having No Purpose In Life Other Than To Act As A Distillation Of Poison Was Part Of The Ego Of An Eighteen-year-old. He Had Resolved That His Beautiful White Hands Would Never Be Soiled Or Calloused. He Wanted To Be Like A Pennant, Dependent On Each Gusting Wind. The Only Thing That Seemed Valid To Him Was To Live For The Emotions--gratuitous And Unstable, Dying Only To Quicken Again, Dwindling And Flaring Without Direction Or Purpose.

Human Beings - They Go On Being Born And Dying, Dying And Being Born. It's Kind Of Boring, Isn't It?