Were I More Conversant With Literature And

And Love Became The World's Origin And The World's Ruler, Yet Littered Its Path Is With Flowers And Blood, Flowers And Blood.

The Heavy Red Roses Smoldering In The Foggy Morning, Blood-colored And Uninhibited, Made Me Greedy, And Tempted Me Powerfully To Steal One--i Asked The Prices Merely So I Could Come As Near Them As Possible.

The Intelligent Poor Individual Was A Much Finer Observer Than The Intelligent Rich One. The Poor Individual Looks Around Him At Every Step, Listens Suspiciously To Every Word He Hears From The People He Meets; Thus, Every Step He Takes Presents A Problem, A Task, For His Thoughts And Feelings. He Is Alert And Sensitive, He Is Experienced, His Soul Has Been Burned.

But Now It Was Spring Again, And Spring Was Almost Unbearable For Sensitive Hearts. It Drove Creation To Its Utmost Limits, It Wafted Its Spice-laden Breath Even Into The Nostrils Of The Innocent.

Do You Know What Constitutes A Great Poet? He Is A Person Without Shame, Incapable Of Blushing. Ordinary Fools Have Moments When They Go Off By Themselves And Blush With Shame; Not So The Great Poet.... If You Really Have To Quote Someone, Quote A Geographer; That Way You Won't Give Yourself Away. (p 44)