Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a
heartache 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 quite, when
he becoes despately honest with himself, is capable of uttering
profound truths.
Henry Miller
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