We Are All Human, And Our Senses

Call No Day Happy 'til It Is Done; Call No Man Happy Til He Is Dead.

[he] Understood The People In A New Way...the People Is Not Everyone Who Speaks Our Language, Nor Yet The Elect Marked By The Fiery Stamp Of Genius. Not By Birth, Not By The Work Of One's Hands, Not By The Wings Of Education Is One Elected Into The People. But By One's Inner Self. Everyone Forges His Inner Self Year After Year. One Must Try To Temper, To Cut, To Polish One's Soul So As To Become A Human Being. And Thereby Become A Tiny Particle Of One's Own People.

What Is The Most Precious Thing In The World? I See Now That It Is The Knowledge That You Have No Part In Injustice. Injustice Is Stronger Than You, It Always Was And Always Will Be, But Let It Not Be Done Through You.

When Truth Is Discovered By Someone Else, It Loses Something Of Its Attractiveness.

A Day Without A Dark Cloud. Almost A Happy Day. There Were Three Thousand Six Hundred And Fifty-three Days Like That In His Stretch. From The First Clang Of The Rail To The Last Clang Of The Rail. Three Thousand Six Hundred And Fifty-three Days. The Three Extra Days Were For Leap Years.