Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how straight the gait,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he's always doing both. -James A. Michener
Swiadoma wiara jest wolnoscia.
Instynktowna wiara jest niewola.
Mechaniczna wiara jest szalenstwem.
Swiadoma nadzieja jest sila.
Emocjonalna nadzieja jest tchórzostwem.
Mechaniczna nadzieja jest choroba.
Swiadoma milosc wzbudza milosc.
Emocjonalna milosc wzbudza to, co nieoczekiwane.
Mechaniczna milosc wzbudza nienawisc.