Each man deciphers from the ancient alphabets of nature only those secrets that his own deeps possess the power to endow with meaning.

Man is dragged hither and thither, at one moment by the blind instincts of the forest, at the next by the strange intuitions of a higher self whose rationale he doubts and does not understand.

Like the herd animals we are, we sniff warily at the strange one among us.

Choices, more choices than we like afterward to believe, are made far backward in the innocence of childhood.

In the days of the frost seek an minor sun.

The iron did not remember the blood it had once moved within, the phosphorous had forgot the savage brain.

What if I am, in some way, only a sophisticated fire that has acquired an ability to regulate its rate of combustion and to hoard its fuel in order to see and walk?