The Genuine Essence Of Truth Never Dies.

Is Not Cant The Materia Prima Of The Devil, From Which All Falsehoods, Imbecilities, Abominations, Body Themselves, From Which No True Thing Can Come? For Cant Is Itself The Properly A Double-distilled Lie, The Second Power Of A Lie.

Considering The Multitude Of Mortals That Handle The Pen In These Days, And Can Mostly Spell, And Write Without Glaring Violations Of Grammar, The Question Naturally Arises: How Is It, Then, That No Work Proceeds From Them, Bearing Any Stamp Of Authenticity And Permanence; Of Worth For More Than One Day?

All True Work Is Sacred. In All True Work, Were It But True Hand Work, There Is Something Of Divineness. Labor, Wide As The Earth, Has Its Summit In Heaven.

Intellect Is The Soul Of Man, The Only Immortal Part Of Him.

I Grow Daily To Honor Facts More And More, And Theory Less And Less.