It Is The Savor Of

Sitting In The Flickering Light Of The Candles On This Kerchief Of Sand, On This Village Square, We Waited In The Night. We Were Waiting For The Rescuing Dawn - Or For The Moors. Something, I Know Not What, Lent This Night A Savor Of Christmas. We Told Stories, We Joked, We Sang Songs. In The Air There Was That Slight Fever That Reigns Over A Gaily Prepared Feast. And Yet We Were Infinitely Poor. Wind, Sand, And Stars. The Austerity Of Trappists. But On This Badly Lighted Cloth, A Handful Of Men Who Possessed Nothing In The World But Their Memories Were Sharing Invisible Riches.

One Must Observe The Proper Rites.

To Be A Man Is To Feel That One's Own Stone Contributes To Building The Edifice Of The World.

Vain Is The Hope Of Finding Pleasure In That Which One Has Hitherto Disdained; As When The Warrior Hopes To Find Pleasure In The Joys Of The Sedentaries.

We Do Not Pray For Immortality, But Only Not To See Our Acts And All Things Stripped Suddenly Of All Their Meaning; For Then It Is The Utter Emptiness Of Everything Reveals Itself.