Literature In Its Most Comprehensive Sense Is

The Renaissance Had Resulted In The Emancipation Of The Individual, In Making Him Feel That The Universe Had No Other Purpose Than His Happiness. This Brought An Entirely New Answer To The Question, 'why Should I Do This Or That?' It Used To Be, 'because Self-instituted Authority Command You.' The Answer Now Was, 'because It Is Good For Men.' In This Lies Our Greatest Debt To The Renaissance, That It Instituted The Welfare Of Men As The End Of All Action.

As I Got Warmed Up, And Felt Perfectly At Home In Talk, I Heard Myself Boasting, Lying, Exaggerating. Oh, Not Deliberately, Far From It. It Would Be Unconvivial And Dull To Stop And Arrest The Flow Of Talk, And Speak Only After Carefully Considering Whether I Was Telling The Truth.

I Would Willingly Stand At Street Corners, Hat In Hand, Begging Passerby To Drop Their Unused Minutes Into It.

Psychoanalysts Are Not Occupied With The Minds Of Their Patients; They Do Not Believe In The Mind But In A Cerebral Intestine.

It Was A Morning In Early Summer. A Silver Haze Shimmered And Trembled Over The Lime Trees. The Air Was Laden With Their Fragrance. The Temperature Was Like A Caress. I Remember - I Need Not Recall - That I Climbed Up A Tree Stump And Felt Suddenly Immersed In Itness. I Did Not Call It By That Name. I Had No Need For Words. It And I Were One.