Disease is a physical process that generally begins that equality which death completes.
Coming up home the other night in my car (the Guy Street car), I heard a man who was hanging onto a strap say: “The drama is just turning into a bunch of talk.” This set me thinking; and I was glad that it did, because I am being paid by this paper to think once a week, and it is wearing. Some days I never think from morning till night.
O God, impress upon me the value of time, and give regulation to all my thoughts and to all my movements.
My views and feelings (are) in favor of the abolition of war - and I hope it is practicable, by improving the mind and morals of society, to lessen the disposition to war; but of its abolition I despair.
When Old Corruption first begun,
Adorn’d in yellow vest,
He committed on Flesh a whoredom—
O, what a wicked beast!
From then a callow babe did spring,
And Old Corruption smil’d
To think his race should never end,
For now he had a child.
He call’d him Surgery and fed
The babe with his own milk;
For Flesh and he could ne’er agree:
She would not let him suck.
And this he always kept in mind;
And form’d a crooked knife,
And ran about with bloody hands
To seek his mother’s life.
And as he ran to seek his mother
He met with a dead woman.
He fell in love and married her—
A deed which is not common!
She soon grew pregnant, and brought forth
Scurvy and Spotted Fever,
The father grinn’d and skipt about,
And said ‘I’m made for ever!
‘For now I have procur’d these imps
I’ll try experiments.’
With that he tied poor Scurvy down,
And stopt up all its vents.
And when the child began to swell
He shouted out aloud—
‘I’ve found the dropsy out, and soon
Shall do the world more good.’
He took up Fever by the neck,
And cut out all its spots;
And, thro’ the holes which he had made,
He first discover’d guts.
It is worthy to note, that the early popularity of Washington was not the result of brilliant achievement nor signal success; on the contrary, it rose among trials and reverses, and may almost be said to have been the fruit of defeat.
It is the sun that shares our works. The moon shares nothing. It is a sea.
But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave.
From the oyster to the eagle, from the swine to the tiger, all animals are to be found in men and each of them exists in some man, sometimes several at the time. Animals are nothing but the portrayal of our virtues and vices made manifest to our eyes, the visible reflections of our souls. God displays them to us to give us food for thought.
Every person should listen only to good and should abhor anything that is evil or bad.
This thoroughly 'pragmatic' view of religion has usually been taken as a matter of course by common men. They have interpolated divine miracles into the field of nature, they have built a heaven out beyond the grave. It is only transcendentalist metaphysicians who think that, without adding any concrete details to Nature, or subtracting any, but by simply calling it the expression of absolute spirit, you make it more divine just as it stands. I believe the pragmatic way of taking religion to be the deeper way. It gives it body as well as soul, it makes it claim, as everything real must claim, some characteristic realm of fact as its very own. What the more characteristically divine facts are, apart from the actual inflow of energy in the faith-state and the prayer-state, I know not. But the over-belief on which I am ready to make my personal venture is that they exist. The whole drift of my education goes to persuade me that the world of our present consciousness is only one out of many worlds of consciousness that exist, and that those other worlds must contain experiences which have a meaning for our life also; and that although in the main their experiences and those of this world keep discrete, yet the two become continuous at certain points, and higher energies filter in. By being faithful in my poor measure to this over-belief, I seem to myself to keep more sane and true. I can, of course, put myself into the sectarian scientist's attitude, and imagine vividly that the world of sensations and scientific laws and objects may be all. But whenever I do this, I hear that inward monitor of which W. K. Clifford once wrote, whispering the word 'bosh!' Humbug is humbug, even though it bear the scientific name, and the total expression of human experience, as I view it objectively, invincibly urges me beyond the narrow 'scientific' bounds. Assuredly, the real world is of a different temperament â€” more intricately built than physical science allows. So my objective and my subjective conscience both hold me to the over-belief which I express. Who knows whether the faithfulness of individuals here below to their own poor over-beliefs may not actually help God in turn to be more effectively faithful to his own greater tasks?
Epicurus, we are told, left behind him three hundred volumes of his own works, wherein he had not inserted a single quotation; and we have it upon the authority of Varroâ€™s own words that he himself composed four hundred and ninety books. Seneca assures us that Didymus the grammarian wrote no less than four thousand; but Origen, it seems, was yet more prolific, and extended his performances even to six thousand treatises. It is obvious to imagine with what sort of materials the productions of such expeditious workmen were wrought up: sound thoughts and well-matured reflections could have no share, we may be sure, in these hasty performances. Thus are books multiplied, whilst authors are scarce; and so much easier is it to write than to think! But shall I not myself, Palamedes, prove an instance that it is so, if I suspend any longer your own more important reflections by interrupting you with such as mine?
Therein does the conscious Self (purusha) experience pain caused by decay and death, until dissociation from the subtle body; thus suffering is in the very nature of things.
I have been into many of the ancient cathedrals - grand, wonderful, mysterious. But I always leave them with a feeling of indignation because of the generations of human beings who have struggled in poverty to build these altars to an unknown god.
And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens... Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad!
I assure you, a tiger, or a venomous serpent could not rouse terror in me equal to that which he wakens.
I'd be glad of a retaliation that wouldn't recoil on myself; but treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends: they wound those who resort to them, worse than their enemies.
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, while the world's tide is bearing me along; other desires and other hopes beset me, hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
None so deaf as those who will not hear.
Of the wealth of the world each has as much as they take.