Every Man Is Two Men;

You Talk When You Cease To Be At Peace With Your Thoughts; And When You Can No Longer Dwell In The Solitude Of Your Heart You Live In Your Lips, And Sound Is A Diversion And A Pastime. And In Much Of Your Talking, Thinking Is Half Murdered.

And That Which Sings And Contemplates In You Is Still Dwelling Within The Bounds Of That First Moment Which Scattered The Stars Into Space.

Do Not Fear The Thorns In Your Path, For They Draw Only Corrupt Blood.

I Deserted The World And Sought Solitude Because I Became Tired Of Rendering Courtesy To Those Multitudes Who Believe That Humility Is A Sort Of Weakness, And Mercy A Kind Of Cowardice, And Snobbery A Form Of Strength.

Verily The Lust For Comfort Murders The Passion Of The Soul, And Then Walks Grinning In The Funeral.