One Must Observe The Proper Rites.

Sitting In The Flickering Light Of The Candles On This Kerchief Of Sand, On This Village Square, We Waited In The Night. We Were Waiting For The Rescuing Dawn - Or For The Moors. Something, I Know Not What, Lent This Night A Savor Of Christmas. We Told Stories, We Joked, We Sang Songs. In The Air There Was That Slight Fever That Reigns Over A Gaily Prepared Feast. And Yet We Were Infinitely Poor. Wind, Sand, And Stars. The Austerity Of Trappists. But On This Badly Lighted Cloth, A Handful Of Men Who Possessed Nothing In The World But Their Memories Were Sharing Invisible Riches.

You Become Responsible For A Long Time For What You've Tamed.

The Tree Is More Than First A Seed, Then A Stem, Then A Living Trunk, And Then Dead Timber. The Tree Is A Slow, Enduring Force Straining To Win The Sky.

The Seed Haunted By The Sun Never Fails To Find Its Way Between The Stones In The Ground. And The Pure Logician, If No Sun Draws Him Forth, Remains Entangled In His Logic.

It Is The Duty Of The Ship's Captain To Make Port, Cost What It May.