I Find War Detestable But Those Who

If There Is One Place On The Face Of The Earth Where All The Dreams Of Living Men Have Found A Home From The Very Earliest Days When Man Began The Dream Of Existence, It Is India. For More Than 30 Centuries, The Tree Of Vision, With All Its Thousand Branches And Their Millions Of Twigs, Has Sprung From This Torrid Land, The Burning Womb Of The Gods. It Renews Itself Tirelessly Showing No Signs Of Decay.

His (swami Vivekananda) Words Are Great Music, Phrases In The Style Of Beethoven, Stirring Rhythms Like The March Of Handel Choruses. I Cannot Touch These Sayings Of His, Scattered As They Are Through The Pages Of Books, At Thirty Years' Distance, Without Receiving A Thrill Through My Body Like An Electric Shock. And What Shocks, What Transports, Must Have Been Produced When In Burning Words They Issued From The Lips Of The Hero!

I Would Rather Have This Life Of Combat Than The Moral Calm And Mournful Stupor Of These Last Years. God Give Me Struggle, Enemies, Howling Crowds, All The Combot Of Which I Am Capable.

The More A Man Lives, The More A Man Creates, The More A Man Loves And Loses Those Whom He Loves, The More Does He Escape From Death. With Every New Blow That We Have To Bear, With Every New Work That We Round And Finish, We Escape From Ourselves, We Escape Into The Work We Have Created, The Soul We Have Loved, The Soul That Has Left Us.

History Furnishes To Politics All The Arguments That It Needs, For The Chosen Cause.