Among the multitude of scholars and authors, we feel no hallowing presence; we are sensible of a knack and skill rather than of inspiration; they have a light, and know not whence it comes, and call it their own; their talent is some exaggerated faculty, some overgrown member, so that their strength is a disease.
"I Am Not Bound To Win, But I Am Bound To Be True. I Am Not Bound To Succeed, But I Am Bound To Live By The Light That I Have. I Must Stand With Anybody That Stands Right, And Stand With Him While He Is Right, And Part With Him When He Goes Wrong."
And before my Soul took me to task I was hard of hearing; I heard only tumult and uproar. But now I am all ears listening to the silence and its choirs singing the hymns of time, intoning the praises of the firmament, revealing the secrets of the invisible.
Here even the various mind-pleasing blossoming flowers, and attractive shining supreme golden houses, have no inherently existent maker at all. They are set up through the power of thought. Through the power of conceptuality the world is established
"The Best Thing To Give To Your Enemy Is Forgiveness; to An Opponent, Tolerance; To A Friend, Your Heart; to Your Child, A Good Example; To A Father, deference; To Your Mother, Conduct That Will Make her Proud Of You; To Yourself, Respect; To All Others, Charity."
At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night.