Living Is Being Born Slowly.

On A Day Of Burial There Is No Perspective--for Space Itself Is Annihilated. Your Dead Friend Is Still A Fragmentary Being. The Day You Bury Him Is A Day Of Chores And Crowds, Of Hands False Or True To Be Shaken, Of The Immediate Cares Of Mourning. The Dead Friend Will Not Really Die Until Tomorrow, When Silence Is Round You Again. Then He Will Show Himself Complete, As He Was--to Tear Himself Away, As He Was, From The Substantial You. Only Then Will You Cry Out Because Of Him Who Is Leaving And Whom You Cannot Detain.

True Love Is Inexhaustible; The More You Give, The More You Have.

If A Sheep Eats Bushes Does It Eat Flowers Too? A Sheep Eats Whatever It Finds Even A Flower With Thorn? Even A Flower With Thorns. Then What's The Good Of Thorns?

Only The Children Know What They Are Looking For. They Waste Their Time Over A Rag Doll And It Becomes Very Important To Them; And If Anybody Takes It Away From Them, They Cry.

Transport Of The Mails, Transport Of The Human Voice, Transport Of Flickering Pictures-in This Century As In Others Our Highest Accomplishments Still Have The Single Aim Of Bringing Men Together.