If A Man Is To Shed The

Most Men Are Essentially Dead By Thirty.

The Greatest Book Is Not The One Whose Message Engraves Itself On The Brain, As A Telegraphic Message Engraves Itself On The Ticker-tape, But The One Whose Vital Impact Opens Up Other Viewpoints, And From Writer To Reader Spreads The Fire That Is Fed By The Various Essences, Until It Becomes A Vast Conflagration Leaping From Forest To Forest.

Passion Is Like Genius: A Miracle.

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.

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.