He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars.
He had no conscious knowledge of death, but like every animal of the Wild, he possessed the instinct of death. To him it stood as the greatest of hurts. It was the very essence of the unknown; it was the sum of the terrors of the unknown, the one culminating and unthinkable catastrophe that could happen to him, about which he knew nothing and about which he feared everything.
You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.
He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time.
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.