There Is No Gift More Great Than

There Is Not Any Memory With Less Satisfaction Than The Memory Of Some Temptation We Resisted.

Love, I Take It, Must Look Toward Something Not Quite Accessible, Something Not Quite Understood.

Everything In Life Is Miraculous. For The Sigil Taught Me That It Rests Within The Power Of Each Of Us To Awaken Atwill From A Dragging Nightmare Of Life Made Up Of Unimportant Tasks And Tedious Useless Little Habits, To See Life As It Really Is, And To Rejoice In Its Exquisite Wonderfulness.

I Fight Against The Gluttony Of Time With So Many Very Amusing Weapons With Gestures And With Three Attitudes And With Charming Phrases; With Tears And With Tinsel, And With Sugar-coated Pills, And With Platitudes Slightly Regilded. Yes, And I Fight Him Also With Little Mirrors Wherein Gleam Confusedly The Corruptions Of Lust, And Ruddy Loyalty, And A Bit Of Moonshine, And The Pure Diamond Of The Heart's Desire, And The Opal Cloudings Of Human Compromise: But, Above All, I Fight That Ravening Dotard With The Strength Of My Own Folly.

The Desire To Write Perfectly Of Beautiful Happenings Is, As The Saying Runs, Old As The Hills — And As Immortal.