I Gather That He Nearly Knocked You

There Is One Vast Human Experience That Confronts Us So Formidably That We Cannot Pretend To Overlook It. There Is No Solution To Death. There Is No Means Whatever Whereby You Or I, By Taking Thought, Can Solve This Difficulty In Such A Manner That It No Longer Exists.

The Devil Is A Spiritual Lunatic, But, Like Many Lunatics, He Is Extremely Plausible And Cunning.

Fantasy Works Inwards Upon Its Author, Blurring The Boundary Between The Visioned And The Actual, And Associating Itself Ever Moreclosely With The Ego, So That The Child Who Has Fantasied Himself A Murderer Ends By Becoming A Loeb Or A Leopold. The Creative Imagination Works Outwards, Steadily Increasing The Gap Between The Visioned And The Actual, Till This Becomes The Great Gulf Fixed Between Art And Nature. Few Writers Of Crime-stories Become Murderers--if Any Do, It Is Not The Result Of Identifying Themselves With Their Murderous Heroes.

Work Is Not Primarily A Thing One Does To Live But The Thing One Lives To Do. It Is, Or It Should Be, The Full Expression Of The Worker's Faculties, The Thing In Which He Finds Spiritual, Mental And Bodily Satisfaction, And The Medium In Which He Offers Himself To God.

A Society In Which Consumption Has To Be Artificially Stimulated In Order To Keep Production Going Is A Society Founded On Trash And Waste, For Such A Society Is A House Built Upon Sand.