We White People Think That

Man Doeth This And Doeth That From The Good Or Evil Of His Heart; But He Knows Not To What End His Sense Doth Prompt Him; For When He Strikes He Is Blind To Where The Blow Shall Fall, Nor Can He Count The Airy Threads That Weave The Web Of Circumstance. Good And Evil, Love And Hate, Night And Day, Sweet And Bitter, Man And Woman, Heaven Above And The Earth Beneath--all Those Things Are Needful, One To The Other, And Who Knows The End Of Each?

We May Taste Of Every Turn Of Chance - Now Rule As Kings, Now Serve As Slaves; Now Love, Now Hate; Now Prosper, And Now Perish. But Still, Through All, We Are The Same; For This Is The Marvel Of Identity.

It Is A Hard Thing When One Has Shot Sixty-five Lions Or More, As I Have In The Course Of My Life, That The Sixty-sixth Should Chew Your Leg Like A Quid Of Tobacco. It Breaks The Routine Of The Thing, And Putting Other Considerations Aside, I Am An Orderly Man And Don't Like That. This Is By The Way.

Yea, All Things Live Forever, Though At Times They Sleep And Are Forgotten.

Truly The Universe Is Full Of Ghosts, Not Sheeted Churchyard Spectres, But The Inextinguishable Elements Of Individual Life, Which Having Once Been, Can Never Die, Though They Blend And Change, And Change Again For Ever.