For At The Hour Of

So Long As I Have Questions To Which There Are No Answers, I Shall Go On Writing.

No It Is Not Easy To Write. It Is As Hard As Breaking Rocks. Sparks And Splinters Fly Like Shattered Steel.

Even Great Men Are Only Truly Recognized And Honored Once They Are Dead. Why? Because Those Who Praise Them Need To Feel Themselves Somehow Superior To The Person Praised, They Need To Feel They Are Making Some Concession.

My Life, The Most Truthful One, Is Unrecognizable, Extremely Interior, And There Is No Single Word That Gives It Meaning.

The Mystery Of Human Destiny Is That We Are Fated, But That We Have The Freedom To Fulfill Or Not Fulfill Our Fate: Realization Of Our Fated Destiny Depends On Us. While Inhuman Beings Like The Cockroach Realize The Entire Cycle Without Going Astray Because They Make No Choices.