Of All Those Arts In

We All Love Conflagrations. When The Sky Changes Color, It Is A Dead Man's Passing.

Perhaps I Am Doomed To Retrace My Steps Under The Illusion That I Am Exploring, Doomed To Try And Learn What I Should Simply Recognize, Learning A Mere Fraction Of What I Have Forgotten.

To Speak Of God, To Think Of God, Is In Every Respect To Show What One Is Made Of. I Have Always Wagered Against God And I Regard The Little That I Have Won In This World As Simply The Outcome Of This Bet. However Paltry May Have Been The Stake (my Life) I Am Conscious Of Having Won To The Full. Everything That Is Doddering, Squint-eyed, Vile, Polluted And Grotesque Is Summoned Up For Me In That One Word: God!

Of All Those Arts In Which The Wise Excel, Nature's Chief Masterpiece Is Writing Well.

No One Who Has Lived Even For A Fleeting Moment For Something Other Than Life In Its Conventional Sense And Has Experienced The Exaltation That This Feeling Produces Can Then Renounce His New Freedom So Easily.