For The Myth Is The

Solitude Produces Originality, Bold And Astonishing Beauty, Poetry. But Solitude Also Produces Perverseness, The Disproportianate, The Absurd And The Forbidden.

The Observations And Encounters Of A Devotee Of Solitude And Silence Are At Once Less Distinct And More Penetrating Than Those Of The Sociable Man; His Thoughts Are Weightier, Stranger, And Never Without A Tinge Of Sadness. Images And Perceptions Which Might Otherwise Be Easily Dispelled By A Glance, A Laugh, An Exchange Of Comments, Concern Him Unduly, They Sink Into Mute Depths, Take On Significance, Become Experiences, Adventures, Emotions.

War Is Only A Cowardly Escape From The Problems Of Peace.

Is Not Life In Itself A Thing Of Goodness, Irrespective Of Whether The Course It Takes For Us Can Be Called A 'happy' One?

There Is Only One Real Misfortune: To Forfeit One's Own Good Opinion Of Oneself. Lose Your Complacency, Once Betray Your Own Self-contempt And The World Will Unhesitatingly Endorse It.