The Writer Is The Faust

It´s A Good Thing When A Man Is Different From Your Image Of Him. Is Shows He Isn´t A Type. If He Were, It Would Be The End Of Him As A Man. But If You Can´t Place Him In A Category, It Means That At Least A Part Of Him Is What A Human Being Ought To Be. He Has Risen Above Himself, He Has A Grain Of Immortality.

Gregariousness Is Always The Refuge Of Mediocrities, Whether They Swear By Soloviev Or Kant Or Marx. Only Individuals Seek The Truth, And They Shun Those Whose Sole Concern Is Not The Truth.

And When The War Broke Out, Its Real Horrors, Its Real Dangers, Its Menace Of Real Death Were A Blessing Compared With The Inhuman Reign Of The Lie, And They Brought Relief Because They Broke The Spell Of The Dead Letter.

Immensely Grateful, Touched, Proud, Astonished, Abashed.

Lara Walked Along The Tracks Following A Path Worn By Pilgrims And Then Turned Into The Fields. Here She Stopped And, Closing Her Eyes, Took A Deep Breath Of The Flower-scented Air Of The Broad Expanse Around Her. It Was Dearer To Her Than Her Kin, Better Than A Lover, Wiser Than A Book. For A Moment She Rediscovered The Purpose Of Her Life. She Was Here On Earth To Grasp The Meaning Of Its Wild Enchantment And To Call Each Thing By Its Right Name, Or, If This Were Not Within Her Power, To Give Birth Out Of Love For Life To Successors Who Would Do It In Her Place.