I Love Three Things," I Then Say.

No, I Don't Admire The Genius. But I Admire And Love The Result Of The Genius's Activity In The World, Of Which The Great Man Is Only The Poor Necessary Tool, Only, So To Speak, The Paltry Awl To Bore With.

And Love Became The World's Origin And The World's Ruler, Yet Littered Its Path Is With Flowers And Blood, Flowers And Blood.

There Was A Rock In Front Of My Hut, A Tall, Gray Rock. By Its Looks It Seemed To Be Well-disposed Toward Me.

In Old Age We Are Like A Batch Of Letters That Someone Has Sent. We Are No Longer In The Past, We Have Arrived.

Rather Than Admire The Mediocre Great Men Over Whom Passersby Nudge Each Other In Awe, I Venerate The Young, Unknown Geniuses Who Die In Their Teens, Their Souls Shattered - Delicate, Phosphorescent Glowworms That One Must See To Know They Really Did Exist.