Life is so short. I would rather sing one song than interpret the thousand.

So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you.

Do you know the only value life has is what life puts upon itself? And it is of course overestimated, for it is of necessity prejudiced in its own favour. Take that man I had aloft. He held on as if he were a precious thing, a treasure beyond diamonds of rubies. To you? No. To me? Not at all. To himself? Yes. But I do not accept his estimate. He sadly overrates himself. There is plenty more life demanding to be born. Had he fallen and dripped his brains upon the deck like honey from the comb, there would have been no loss to the world. The supply is too large.

Darn the wheel of the world! Why must it continually turn over? Where is the reverse gear?

Then one can't make a living out of poetry? Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.

Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death.

But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called -- called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.