Of All The Idiots I Have Met

Write A Little Every Day, Without Hope, Without Despair.

If I Know A Song Of Africa, Of The Giraffe And The African New Moon Lying On Her Back, Of The Plows In The Fields And The Sweaty Faces Of The Coffee Pickers, Does Africa Know A Song Of Me? Will The Air Over The Plain Quiver With A Color That I Have Had On, Or The Children Invent A Game In Which My Name Is, Or The Full Moon Throw A Shadow Over The Gravel Of The Drive That Was Like Me, Or Will The Eagles Of The Ngong Hills Look Out For Me?

Then Martine Said: "so Yuo Will Be Poor Now All Your Life, Babette?" Poor?" Said Babette. She Smiled As If To Herself. "no, I Shall Never Be Poor. I Told You That I Am A Great Artist. A Great Artist, Mesdames, Is Never Poor.we Have Something, Mesdames, Of Which Other People Know Nothing.

When You Have A Great And Difficult Task, Something Perhaps Almost Impossible, If You Only Work A Little At A Time, Every Day A Little, Suddenly The Work Will Finish Itself.

It Is When One Begins To Lose The Consciousness Of Freedom, And When The Idea Of Necessity Enters The World At All, When There Is Any Hurry Or Strain Anywhere, A Letter To Be Written Or A Train To Catch, When You Have Got To Work, To Make The Horses Of The Dream Gallop, Or To Make The Rifles Go Off, That The Dream Is Declining, And Turning Into The Nightmare, Which Belongs To The Poorest And Most Vulgar Class Of Dreams.