Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why
we get a heart-ache when we read those lines written by
the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as
the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked
the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion
of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when
he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable
of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same
source. There is no mystery about the origin of things.
We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets,
all musicians; we have only to open up, to discover
what is already there.
Henry Miller, Sexus
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