The modern hero, the modern individual who dares to heed

the call and seek the mansion of that presence with whom it is

our whole destiny to be atoned, cannot, indeed must not, wait for

his community to cast of its slough of pride, fear, rationalized

avarice, and sanctified misunderstanding. “Live,” Nietzsche says,

“as though the day were here.” It is not society that is to guide and

save the creative hero, but precisely the reverse. And so every one

of us shares the supreme ordeal–carries the cross of the redeemer

–not in the bright moments of his tribe’s great victories, but in

the silences of his personal despair.

‘Thank goodness!’ said Bilbo laughing, and handed him

the tobacco-jar.

He turned from me and walked away. I watched his back

receding down the long, gleaming hall.

, and

guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into

the room.

they went

inside the big old house whose door stood open, pressed back

by the breeze they made in passing.

You don’t see things or people, you see space –

the winch between two branches. You live in

the winch between two branches. Something spoke,

you answered. And you don’t know what, or when.

And the twelfth stroke of midnight sounded; the twelfth

stroke of midnight, Thursday, the eleventh of October, Nineteen

hundred and Twenty Eight.

It was at the bottom of the alley with its roots in the air.

“I only tell people once,” the man said and left the window.

He

would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem

waked up in the morning.

P.S. That night in the emergency room, do you recall if I threw up

something I needed? Some small but trivial thing that belonged

inside? I distinctly feel as though I’m missing something.

But then, I always have.
LADY WINDERMERE [taking her husband’s hand]: Ah, you’re marrying

a very good woman!
CURTAIN
reply only on the ethical plane. We shall devote to them a future work.
THE END
aimed

the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right

temple.