Men Hate Those To Whom

Not Being Heard Is No Reason For Silence.

Monastic Incarceration Is Castration.

If A Writer Wrote Merely For His Time, I Would Have To Break My Pen And Throw It Away.

I Don't Mind What Congress Does, As Long As They Don't Do It In The Streets And Frighten The Horses.

In This Way, His Unhappy Soul Struggled With Its Anguish. Eighteen Hundred Years Before This Unfortunate Man, The Mysterious Being, In Whom All The Sanctities And All The Sufferings Of Humanity Come Together, He Too, While The Olive Trees Trembled In The Fierce Breath Of The Infinite, Had Brushed Away The Fearful Cup That Appeared Before Him, Streaming With Shadow And Running Over With Darkness, In The Star-filled Depths. (pg. 236)