Literary Life

There are no adventures in the external world comparable to the explorations of the human mind functioning imaginatively in solitude.
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Budda regarded wisdom minus gods or God, yet a few centuries after he died he himself was enthroned within the divine abstract.
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Camus says courage is passive, for it is indifferent to death.
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The invention of printing has gradually deprived modern man of his philosophers. In their place it has supplied him with commentators on philosophy.  Before the age of printing the thoughtful men of the world meditated more than they read.  Now they read practically to the exclusion of meditation. Let a modern-day Socrates begin from scratch, that is, as if he were the first thinker to ever contrive a systematic pattern of man’s relation to the universe, without any reference to respected authorities of the past, and it is highly doubtful that he would be taken seriously, even outside academic circles.
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Camus: “I don’t refuse a path leading to the Supreme Being, so long as it doesn’t avoid other beings.”
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“Forget oneself; achieve great things” was a thought of Renan’s which attracted both Van Gogh and Camus.  In an age of autobiographical novels there is little hope that such advice will be taken seriously.
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Speculation need not be as parochial as it theoretically sounds.  The master in a particular field is frequently a knowledgeable individual in many areas outside his own special territory.  Witness the broad intelligent views of the greatest painters, poets and composers.  Often they came very close to being Renaissance men.
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Camus again: “He who despairs of events is a coward, but he who has hope for the human lot is a fool.”
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Poetry deliberately turns her back on those who reject her, those who are convinced that she offers no useful purpose for enhancing their lives.  Contrary to Whitman’s imperative, poetry needs no multitude of adherents  in order to thrive. She is a  wanderer who travels the earth like an inveterate beachcomber meeting isolated and unappreciated kin on every latitude and longitude.  Those who do not read but yet look at the stars with their naked eyes for no other reason than to admire them are friends and potential kin. Those who dissect the flower or prefer the mounted butterfly shall never commune with her pages in earnest.  The hollow spaces in the latter’s sensibilities shall eventually be filled with concrete.  I say the moon is on fire and my companion the scientist pulls out his instrument for measuring the gases being emitted into space, or my companion the businessman pleads with me to draw the curtain across the window because some potential thief might catch a glimpse of his richly decorated livingroom and form a plan for robbing it some day.
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The communists are the only ones who feel optimistic about the future.  And even their most determined opponents must admit socialism has made tremendous strides since 1917.
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Let people act in accordance with the dictates of their heart and everything will fall into its proper place without the necessity of assistance from any other quarter.  How much more convincing is a man who speaks from the heart than one who merely seeks to win next month’s election.  Our human crisis is the result of being influenced in our behavior and opinions by too many people who feel nothing except the thickness of their billfold.  I think the greatest harm our educational system does is when it deprives our youth of that native straightforwardness with which they were born.  Those human elements which should be most honored are the first to be severed from the conscience.  A chapter in my Civil War book is called “Digging Down To The Pan,” but if the word “Pan” were replaced by “Soul” the phrase might evoke a broader connotation.  Digging down to the soul.  This is what one must do before even considering making the great leap over the moon.
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Men without passions create neither poetry nor philosophy.  The world owes every step forward it has taken to those in the past who had the courage of their extreme views.  Men have never followed a moderate with any genuine sense of loyalty.
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Sometimes my attitude towards philosophical ideas is anything but receptive.  In fact I can become downright antagonistic toward an idea that doesn’t appeal to me.  I will dismiss it in utterly contemptous language.  Who cares?  Who will ever care?  Such words have the power of vanquishing the profoundest speculations on the meaning of life.
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The great appeal of Nietzsche over Kant and Hegel, for instance, is the lack of system in his preaching.  He casts off sparks in all directions simultaneously and some of these sparks ignite the inflammable elements in his readers’ minds while others merely peter out into cold indistinguishable ashes.
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From Bertrand Russell’s autobiography: “Passions are smirched by indulgence
and killed by restraint.
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I sit at my desk looking out the window.  The sky is gray.  Even the green grass, the green spruce needles and the brown weeds have a livid appearance.  Nothing seems alive or vital.  Is it the sky reflecting the light from these few square acres of the planet’s surface or the heavens exuding melancholy thoughts which drift through the air down to the earth?  No, all has its beginning and end in my own mind.  My own mood blackens the visible world around me.  I continue staring out the window.  Occasionall a single ray from the sun breaks through the clouds.  A gold flicker of momentary light pervades the world.  But my thoughts refuse to brighten.  The roots are too deeply embedded in the soil of melancholia.  On the hillside that rises opposite the window, sheep are grazing.  They have warm wool coats and lots of fat to resist the sub-freezing temperature.  The presence of plenty of good land to graze upon is all that matters to them.  When I go outside I must wrap myself in several layers of clothing.  But even then I am not comfortable unless I walk briskly.  Standing still is an invitation to numb fingers and toes.  The whole sun has finally broken through the clouds and is now shining.  Yet the cold air is seeping beneath and around the window I am sitting close to.  In the room is an electric heater.  I think of all the work I have promised myself to do.
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I am standing still,  I am the sun, that central coin in the sky upon which everything else is focused, and the days are whirling about my head.  I have a strong desire to move, to go in some direction or other, but am unable to sever my body from the roots which are holding it fast to its present position.  On the other side of the window nearest me darkness prevails, nothing is visible.  I can only imagine the shapes and forms with which I am already familiar.  The habit of vision beneath the sun has filled my brain with memories.  If I am sitting alone in a room having difficulty finding something to think about, I can always reach into my little treasure chest of memories and pull out some perfectly delineated image.  At least my daylight hours have not been wasted.  I once casually observed a clump of spruces.  Now these trees are recreated before my inner eye and bring joy to the blank space of a passing hour.  One banishes dullness and boredom with one’s memory.
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Everything that is worthwhile, everything that elevates one’s thoughts seems to happen so quickly.  We are almost never allowed to linger over our pleasures.  Perhaps it is because real joy and happiness, if extended over to long a period of time, would ultimately prove fatal to the senses.  The senses’ capacity is small, consequently they can only endure great titillations in minute quantities.