Everything Is Good . . . As

The Proper Function Of Man Is To Live, Not To Exist. I Shall Not Waste My Days In Trying To Prolong Them. I Shall Use My Time.

I Would Rather Be Ashes Than Dust! I Would Rather That My Spark Should Burn Out In A Brilliant Blaze Than It Should Be Stifled By Dry-rot. I Would Rather Be A Superb Meteor, Every Atom Of Me In Magnificent Glow, Than A Sleepy And Permanent Planet. The Function Of Man Is To Live, Not To Exist. I Shall Not Waste My Days Trying To Prolong Them. I Shall Use My Time.

To Have A Full Stomach, To Daze Lazily In The Sunshine--such Things Were Remuneration In Full For His Adors And Toils, While His Ardors And Toils Were In Themselves Self-remunerative. They Were Expressions Of Life, And Life Is Always Happy When It Is Expressing Itself.

But It Did Not All Happen In A Day, This Giving Over Of Himself, Body And Soul, To The Man-animals. He Could Not Immediately Forego His Wild Heritage And His Memories Of The Wild. There Were Days When He Crept To The Edge Of The Forest And Stood And Listened To Something Calling Him Far And Away.

Of Her Own Experience She Had No Memory Of The Thing Happening; But In Her Instinct, Which Was The Experience Of All Mothers Of Wolves, There Lurked A Memory Of Fathers That Had Eaten Their New-born And Helpless Progeny.