It Is Not As Late As You

The Leaves Streamed Down, Trembling In The Sun. They Were Not Green, Only A Few, Scattered Through The Torrent, Stood Out In Single Drops Of Green So Bright And Pure That It Hurt The Eyes; The Rest Were Not A Color, But A Light, The Substance Of Fire On Metal, Living Sparks Without Edges. And It Looked As If The Forest Were A Spread Of Light Boiling Slowly To Produce This Color, The Green Rising In Small Bubbles, The Condensed Essence Of Spring. The Trees Met, Blending Over The Road And The Spots Of Sun On The Ground Moved With The Shifting Of The Branches, Like A Conscious Caress.

Do You Mean To Tell Me That You're Thinking Seriously Of Building That Way, When And If You Are An Architect?" Yes." My Dear Fellow, Who Will Let You?" That's Not The Point. The Point Is, Who Will Stop Me?

A Society That Robs An Individual Of The Product Of His Effort ... Is Not Strictly Speaking A Society, But A Mob Held Together By Institutionalized Gang Violence.

He, Too, Stood Looking At Her For A Moment - And It Seemed To Her That It Was Not A Look Of Greeting After An Absence, But The Look Of Someone Who Had Thought Of Her Every Day Of That Year. She Could Not Be Certain, It Was Only An Instant, So Brief That Just As She Caught It, He Was Turning.

The Evil Of The World Is Made Possible By Nothing But The Sanction You Give It.