We Who Feel That Justice Is Not

Innate Sensuousness Rarely Has Any Desire For Accuracy, No Desire For Precise Information. It Basks In Sunshine, Bathes In Color, Dwells In A Sense Of The Impressive And The Gorgeous, And Rests There. Accuracy Is Not Necessary Except In The Case Of Aggressive, Acquisitive Natures, When It Manifests Itself In A Desire To Seize. True Controlling Sensuousness Cannot Be Manifested In The Most Active Dispositions, Nor Again In The Most Accurate.

You Walk Into A Room, See A Woman, And Something Happens. It's Chemical. What Are You Going To Do About It?

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

And Then He Sank Back And Tried, As Usual, Not To Think. He Must Succeed. That's What The World Was Made For. That's What He Was Made For. That Was What He Would Have To Do.

Your Writer, Your Scientist, Your Chief Official, All Have Lost The Power To Revive The Early Illusion Concerning Fame And High Place. Their Beauty And Delight Is Like The Mirage In The Heavens, Only Plain To The Eye Outside; Within Is Nothing.