In The Desert, An Old Monk Had

The Secret, If One May Paraphrase A Savage Vocabulary, Lies In The Egg Of Night.

It Is Frequently The Tragedy Of The Great Artist For Example Vincent Van Gogh, As It Is Of The Great Scientist, That He Frightens The Ordinary Man. If He Is More Than A Popular Story-teller It May Take Humanity A Generation To Absorb And Grow Accustomed To The New Geography With Which The Scientist Or Artist Presents Us. Even Then, Perhaps Only The More Imaginative And Literate May Accept Him. Subconsciously The Genius Is Feared As An Image Breaker; Frequently He Does Not Accept The Opinions Of The Mass, Or Man's Opinion Of Himself.

Every Man Contains Within Himself A Ghost Continent.

Without The Gift Of Flowers And The Infinite Diversity Of Their Fruits, Man And Bird, If They Had Continued To Exist At All, Would Be Today Unrecognizable.

Man No Longer Dreams Over A Book In Which A Soft Voice, A Constant Companion, Observes, Exhorts, Or Sighs With Him Through The Pangs Of Youth And Age. Today He Is More Likely To Sit Before A Screen And Dream The Mass Dream Which Comes From Outside.