Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for songWild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night longSad storm, whose tears are vain,Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main, - Wail, for the world's wrong
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Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry, More light. Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlight. Neon, incandescent lights that banish the darkness from our caves to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's field. Little tiny flashlights for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Light is knowledge, light is life, light is light.
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The Solitary answered: Such a Form Full well I recollect. We often crossed Each other's path; but, as the Intruder seemed Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, And I as willingly did cherish mine, We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard, From my good Host, that being crazed in brain By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, In hope to find some virtuous herb of power To cure his malady!
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For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?
Verily, when good is hungry is seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters.
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There was another silence, while Marjorie considered whether or not convincing her mother was worth the trouble. People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.
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At 18 our convictions are hills from which we look At 45 they are caves in which we hide.
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At 18 our convictions are hills from which we look; At 45 they are caves in which we hide.
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If it had not been for the discontent of a few fellows who had not been satisfied with their conditions, you would still be living in caves. Intelligent discontent is the mainspring of civilization. Progress is born of agitation. It is agitation or stagnation.
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For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? Verily, when good is hungry is seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters.
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The mystery is what prompted men to leave caves, to come out of the womb of nature.
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At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.
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