My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery—always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? Whats this passion for?
I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?
There is no passion to be found playing small – in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.
Passion is the sum-total of humanity. Without passion, religion, history, romance, art, would all be useless.[Also known as:]All humanity is passion; without passion, religion, history, novels, art would be ineffectual.