Age Is Never So Old

The Ghostly Winter Silence Had Given Way To The Great Spring Murmur Of Awakening Life.

Go Strip Off Your Clothes That Are A Nuisance In This Mellow Clime. Get In And Wrestle With The Sea; Wing Your Heels With The Skill And Power That Reside In You, Hit The Sea's Breakers, Master Them, And Ride Upon Their Backs As A King Should.

I Would Rather Be Ashes Than Dust! I Would Rather That My Spark Should Burn Out In A Brilliant Blaze Than It Should Be Stifled By Dry-rot. I Would Rather Be A Superb Meteor, Every Atom Of Me In Magnificent Glow, Than A Sleepy And Permanent Planet. The Function Of Man Is To Live, Not To Exist. I Shall Not Waste My Days Trying To Prolong Them. I Shall Use My Time.

Man Is A Flux Of States Of Consciousness, A Flow Of Passing Thoughts, Each Thought Of Self Another Self, A Myriad Thoughts, A Myriad Selves, A Continual Becoming But Never Being, A Will-of-the-wisp Flitting Of Ghosts In Ghostland.

To Have A Full Stomach, To Daze Lazily In The Sunshine--such Things Were Remuneration In Full For His Adors And Toils, While His Ardors And Toils Were In Themselves Self-remunerative. They Were Expressions Of Life, And Life Is Always Happy When It Is Expressing Itself.