There Isn't Any Fear In Existence Itself,

Suddenly The Full Long Wail Of A Ship's Horn Surged Through The Open Window And Flooded The Dim Room—a Cry Of Boundless, Dark, Demanding Grief; Pitch-black And Glabrous As A Whale's Back And Burdened With All The Passions Of The Tides, The Memory Of Voyages Beyond Counting, The Joys, The Humiliations: The Sea Was Screaming.

Perfect Purity Is Possible If You Turn Your Life Into A Line Of Poetry Written With A Splash Of Blood.

The Purest Evil That Human Efforts Could Attain, In Other Words, Was Probably Achieved By Those Men Who Made Their Wills The Same And Who Made Their Eyes See The World In The Same Way, Men Who Went Against The Pattern Of Life's Diversity, Men Whose Spirits Shattered The Natural Wall Of The Individual Body, Making Nothing Of This Barrier, Set Up To Guard Against Mutual Corrosion, Men Whose Spirit Accomplished What Flesh Could Never Accomplish.

What I Wanted Was To Die Among Strangers, Untroubled, Beneath A Cloudless Sky. And Yet My Desire Differed From The Sentiments Of That Ancient Greek Who Wanted To Die Under The Brilliant Sun. What I Wanted Was Some Natural, Spontaneous Suicide. I Wanted A Death Like That Of A Fox, Not Yet Well Versed In Cunning, That Walks Carelessly Along A Mountain Path And Is Shot By A Hunter Because Of Its Own Stupidity.

The Cynicism That Regards Hero Worship As Comical Is Always Shadowed By A Sense Of Physical Inferiority