Men Prosper Or Fail, Survive

A Story Is An End In Itself. It Is Not Written To Teach, Sell, Explain Or Destroy Anything. It Is Not Written Even To Entertain. It Is Written As A Man Is Born - An Organic Whole, Dictated Only By Its Own Laws And Its Own Necessity - An End In Itself, Not A Means To An End.

I Sat There Beside Him Till Morning - And As I Watched His Face In The Starlight, Then The First Ray Of The Sun On His Untroubled Forehead And Closed Eyelids, What I Experienced Was Not A Prayer, I Do Not Pray, But That State Of Spirit At Which A Prayer Is A Misguided Attempt: A Full, Confident, Affirming Self-dedication To My Love Of The Right, To The Certainty That The Right Would Win And That This Boy Would Have The Kind Of Future He Deserved... I Did Not Expect It To Be As Great As This - Or As Hard.

Then No Rightful Cause Was Left, And The Pain Of Anger Was Turning Into The Shameful Pain Of Submission. He Had No Right To Condemn Anyone - He Thought - To Denounce Anything, To Fight And Die Joyously, Claiming The Sanctity Of Virtue. The Broken Promises, The Unconfessed Desires, The Betrayal, The Deceit, The Lies, The Fraud - He Was Guilty Of Them All. What Form Of Corruption Could He Scorn? Degrees Do Not Matter, He Thought; One Does Not Bargain About Inches Of Evil.

But I Still Wonder How It Was Possible, In Those Graceless Years Of Transition, Long Ago, That Men Did Not See Whither They Were Going, And Went On, In Blindness And Cowardice, To Their Fate. I Wonder, For It Is Hard For Me To Conceive How Men Who Knew The Word "i," Could Give It Up And Not Know What They Lost. But Such Has Been The Story, For I Have Lived In The City Of The Damned, And I Know What Horror Men Permitted To Be Brought Upon Them.

To Achieve, You Need Thought. You Have To Know What You Are Doing And That's Real Power.