On An Exhausted Field, Only Weeds Grow.

Anxiety Prepares The Organism Badly For An Ordeal Which Even Under More Favorable Circumstances Would Not Be An Easy Thing To Bear.

But I Think Happiness Springs From Another Source, A Far Deeper One That Doesn't Depend On Will Because It Comes From Love.

Evidently The Merit Depends On The Result Of The Work.

Amid The Stillness Of The Night, In The Depths Of The Ravine, From The Direction In Which The Corpses Lay Suddenly Resounded A Kind Of Inhuman, Frightful Laughter In Which Quivered Despair, And Joy, And Cruelty, And Suffering, And Pain, And Sobbing, And Derision; The Heart-rending And Spasmodic Laughter Of The Insane Or Condemned.

Nevertheless, In This Sea Of Human Wretchedness And Malice There Bloomed At Times Compassion, As A Pale Flower Blooms In A Putrid Marsh.