the secret of fortune is joy in our hands. welcome evermore to gods and men is the self-helping mortal. for him all doors are flung wide: him all tongues greet, all honors crown, all eyes follow with desire. our love goes out to him and embraces him, because he did not need it. he is the best of who we can be, never settling for mediocrity, he is divine. we solicitously and apologetically celebrate him, whispering beneath our voices this wonder of a man, because he held on his way, and scorned our disapprobation. the gods on the peaks of olympus loved him because men hated him. “to the persevering mortal,” said zoroaster, “the blessed immortals are swift.”

men will intimidate you telling you that you do not know what you do, wishing for you to fail; because we choose a road different from theirs. no man can tell me what to do; not uncle, not cousin, not aunt, not friend, not neighbour. i will hold steadfast to my truth, my sacrifices justifying my gain, i will obey what is pure and immortal knowing that all truth is in me. therefore i will whip them with my simplicity living to the taste of a spartan. i command all things to my name.

is there any man that has ever exhausted experience that he can tell me what to do. there is no wisdom in your dollar, what have you achieved besides going to work and serving institutions for so many years for the sake of buying a home you cannot afford; and drive around in a toy that you cannot pay the fuel for. i will not jeopardize my standards for the sake of your approval. your ambition friend, is not the ambition of great men. because parents have given us birth and remained in marriage it does not make them princes. they are as selfish as they deceive themselves, accumulating debt for the sake of maintaining some superficial standard of living. i will listen to the owl as it sings at night.

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