We Live On The Circumference Of A

How Our Story Has Been Divided Up Among The Truth-telling Professions! Religion, Philosophy, History, Poetry, Compete With Each Other For Our Ears; And Science Competes With All Together. And For Each We Have A Different Set Of Ears. But, Though We Hear Much, What We Are Told Is As Nothing: None Of It Gives Us Ourselves, Rather Each Story-kind Steals Us To Make Its Reality Of Us.

Emile Saint-blague Had Been A Lively, Versatile Painter In His Youth, But He Had Abused His Energy By Painting Too Many Pictures; So That In What Might Have Been The Ripe Period Of His Art He Had Nothing Left But Ideas. A Man Who Has Nothing Left But Ideas May Be Of Great Service To His Friends, But He Is Of No Use At All To Himself. Emile Was Certainly An Inspiration To His Friends.

The Sciences That Purport To Treat Of Human Things -- The New Scientific Storyings Of The Social, The Political, The Racial Or Ethnic, And The Psychic, Nature Of Human Beings -- Treat Not Of Human Things But Mere Things, Things That Make Up The Physical, Or Circumstantial, Content Of Human Life But Are Not Of The Stuff Of Humanity, Have Not The Human Essence In Them.

A Child Should Be Allowed To Take As Long As She Needs For Knowing Everything About Herself, Which Is The Same As Learning To Be Herself. Even Twenty-five Years If Necessary, Or Even Forever. And It Wouldn't Matter If Doing Things Got Delayed, Because Nothing Is Really Important But Being Oneself.

Daisy Was A Consciously Happy Young Woman Without Any Of The Usual Endowments That Make For Conscious Happiness, Money Apart. She Was Not Pretty, She Was Not Clever, She Had No Friends, No Talents, Nor Even An Imagination To Make Her Think She Was Happy When She Was Really Miserable. As She Was Never Miserable, She Had No Need Of An Imagination.