Most Men Are Essentially Dead By Thirty.

Thousands Of Animals (now Billions) Are Butchered Every Day Without A Shadow Of Remorse. It Cries Vengeance Upon All The Human Race.

There Is No Joy Other Than The Joy Of Creating. There Is No Man Who Is Truly Alive Other Than One Who Is Creating. All Others Are Just Shadows On The Earth With Nothing To Do With Being Alive. The Joy Of Living, Whether It Is Love Or Action, Is The Joy Of Creating.

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.

Skepticism, Riddling The Faith Of Yesterday, Prepared The Way For The Faith Of Tomorrow.

To A Man Whose Mind Is Free There Is Something Even More Intolerable In The Sufferings Of Animals Than In The Sufferings Of Man. For With The Latter It Is At Least Admitted That Suffering Is Evil And That The Man Who Causes It Is A Criminal. But Thousands Of Animals Are Uselessly Butchered Every Day Without A Shadow Of Remorse. If Any Man Were To Refer To It, He Would Be Thought Ridiculous. And That Is The Unpardonable Crime.