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few is the number who live the lives they wish for.
From the perversion of the flesh, O Mother deliver us.
Rome of old was not loved for its greatness, so the poet wrote. Rome was great because men loved her, as I loved my Empire in that moment.
Common wisdom taught that such people did so only to extend their lives, the rich and the powerful clinging like drowning men to their wealth and power, but I know better. Such men are not afraid of dying. They are afraid to live, and so live only days at a time.
A man would do well to become worthy of his honors, else he will be deposed as a tyrant.”
Love is higher than fear.”
Fear is death to reason. Reason death to fear.
young as I was I was too old to long tolerate such things as politics.
We need such people in our lives, for without them we have no lives. We live in other people, by other people. They keep us on the ground. Keep us human—and
“Well done, my good and faithful servant. We are glad to receive you here in this, your moment of triumph.”
“Everyone does, in times like these,” I said. “But we do not choose the challenges of the day. Only our answers to them.”
Such relativistic thinking is always attractive to the young. Despising their parents—and through their parents all authority—they decide there is no authority but themselves, and therefore all knowledge which was and came before them is evil, and they alone wholly good.
Love is not a burden—though it is a responsibility. A duty. Love is an honor—an office we hold. An oath.
The same choices—the same sins—return us to the same places.
“We live in other people,” it said. “They keep us human.”
As darkness brings forth the creatures of the night, so silence brings forth the things within our hearts . . . if we will but listen to it.
Every place is the center of the universe. Everything matters. Every one of our actions, every decision, every sacrifice. Nothing is without meaning, because nothing is without consequence.
