What? A Great Man? I Only Ever

Once Upon A Time, In Some Out Of The Way Corner Of That Universe Which Is Dispersed Into Numberless Twinkling Solar Systems, There Was A Star Upon Which Clever Beasts Invented Knowing.

Many Are Stubborn In Pursuit Of The Path They Have Chosen, Few In Pursuit Of The Goal.

It's Not The Intensity Of The Man, But The Duration Of His Intensity That Makes The Man Great.

Books And Drafts Mean Something Quite Different For Different Thinkers. One Collects In A Book The Lights He Was Able To Steal And Carry Home Swiftly Out Of The Rays Of Some Insight That Suddenly Dawned On Him, While Another Thinker Offers Us Nothing But Shadows - Images In Black And Grey Of What Had Built Up In His Soul The Day Before.

What Destroys A Man More Quickly Than To Work, Think And Feel Without Inner Necessity, Without Any Deep Personal Desire, Without Pleasure - As A Mere Automaton Of Duty?