Oh, Lord God, Have Mercy On Me

Our Worst Fault Is Our Preoccupation With The Faults Of Others.

Pity The Nation Whose Statesman Is A Fox, Whose Philosopher Is A Juggler, And Whose Art Is The Art Of Patching And Mimicking. Pity The Nation That Welcomes Its New Ruler With Trumpetings, And Farewells Him With Hootings, Only To Welcome Another Ruler With Trumpetings Again. Pity The Nation Whose Sages Are Dumb With Years And Whose Strong Men Are Yet In The Cradle. Pity The Nation Divided Into Fragments, Each Fragment Deeming Itself A Nation.

All Men Love You For Themselves. I Love You For Yourself.

Passionate Love Is A Quenchless Thirst.

It Is Not A Garment I Cast Off This Day, But A Skin That I Tear With My Own Hands.