Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.

We ought to dance with rapture that we should be alive and in the flesh, and part of the living, incarnate cosmos.

It is our business to go as we are impelled.

I hate the actor and audience business. An author should be in among the crowd, kicking their shins or cheering them on to some mischief or merriment.

Why were we driven out of Paradise? Why did we fall into this gnawing disease of unappeasable dissatisfaction? Not because we sinned. Ah, no. All the animals in Paradise enjoyed the sensual passion of coition. Not because we sinned. But because we got sex into our head.

The living moment is everything.

Men live in glad obedience to the masters they believe in, or they live in a frictional opposition to the master they wish to undermine.