This site is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Alan William Smolowe who gave birth to the creation of this database.
W. J. Dawson. fully William James Dawson
To a Desolate Friend - O friend, like some cold wind to-day Your message came, and chilled the light; Your house so dark, and mine so bright,— I could not weep, I could not pray! My wife and I had kissed at morn, My children’s lips were full of song; O friend, it seemed such cruel wrong, My life so full, and yours forlorn! We slept last night clasped hand in hand, Secure and calm—and never knew How fared the lonely hours with you, What time those dying lips you fanned. We dreamed of love, and did not see The shadow pass across our dream; We heard the murmur of a stream, Not death’s for it ran bright and free. And in the dark her gentle soul Passed out, but oh! we knew it not! My babe slept fast within her cot, While yours woke to the slow bell’s toll. She paused a moment,—who can tell?— Before our windows, but we lay So deep in sleep she went away, And only smiled a sad farewell! It would be like her; well we know How oft she waked while others slept— She never woke us when she wept, It would be like her thus to go! Ah, friend! you let her stray too far Within the shadow-haunted wood, Where deep thoughts never understood Breathe on us and like anguish are. One day within that gloom there shone A heavenly dawn, and with wide eyes She saw God’s city crown the skies, Since when she hasted to be gone. Too much you yielded to her grace; Renouncing self, she thus became An angel with a human name, And angels coveted her face. Earth’s door you set so wide, alack She saw God’s gardens, and she went A moment forth to look; she meant No wrong, but oh! she came not back! Dear friend, what can I say or sing, But this, that she is happy there? We will not grudge those gardens fair Where her light feet are wandering. The child at play is ignorant Of tedious hours; the years for you To her are moments: and you too Will join her ere she feels your want. The path she wends we cannot track: And yet some instinct makes us know Hers is the joy, and ours the woe,— We dare not wish her to come back!
Choice | Contempt | Desire | Evolution | Folly | Growth | Joy | Labor | Life | Life | Little | Man | Pleasure | Tranquility | Will | Happiness |
Tim Gallwey, fully W. Timothy Gallwey
Coaching is an art that must be learned mostly from experience. In the Inner Game approach, coaching is ‘the facilitation of mobility.’ It is the art of creating an environment through conversation, and a way of being, that facilitates the process by which a person can move toward desired goals in a fulfilling manner. It requires one essential ingredient that cannot be taught: Caring not only for the external results but for the person being coached.
Willard L. Sperry, fully Willard Learoyd Sperry
O God, forgive our wanton waste of the wealth of the soil and sea and air; our desecration of natural beauty; our heedlessness of those who shall come after us, if only we be served; our undue love of money; our contempt for small things and our worship of what is big; our neglect of struggling peoples, For such wrongs to our natural and human heritage, and for many things left undone, forgive us, O God.
Edward Dyer, fully Sir Edward Dyer
The man of Woe - The mann whose thoughtes agaynste him do conspyre, One whom Mishapp her storye dothe depaynt, The mann of woe, the matter of desier, Free of the dead, that lives in endles plaint, His spirit am I, whiche in this deserte lye, To rue his case, whose cause I cannot flye. Despayre my name, whoe never findes releife, Frended of none, but to my selfe a foe; An idle care, mayntaynde by firme beleife That prayse of faythe shall throughe my torments growe, And counte those hopes, that others hartes do ease, Butt base conceites the common sense to please. For sure I am I never shall attayne The happy good from whence my joys aryse; Nor haue I powre my sorrows to refrayne But wayle the wante, when noughte ellse maye suffyse; Whereby my lyfe the shape of deathe muste beare, That deathe which feeles the worst that lyfe doth feare. But what auayles withe tragicall complaynte, Not hopinge healpe, the Furyes to awake? Or why shoulde I the happy mynds aquaynte With doleful tunnes, theire settled peace to shake? All ye that here behoulde Infortune's feare, May judge noe woe may withe my gref compare. Finis. Sir Edward Dyer
Desire | Good | Happy | Hope | Love | Man | Present | Wise | Woe |
These are the idiots’ chiefest arts: To blend and not define the parts The swallow sings, in courts of kings, That fools have their high finishings. And this the princes’ golden rule, The laborious stumble of a fool. To make out the parts is the wise man’s aim, But to loose them the fool makes his foolish game.
All Religions are One - THE ARGUMENT AS the true method of Knowledge is Experiment, the true faculty of knowing must be the faculty which experiences. This faculty I treat of: Principle 1 That the Poetic Genius is the True Man, and that the Body or Outward Form of Man is derived from the Poetic Genius. Like-wise that the Forms of all things are derived from their Genius, which by the Ancients was call’d an Angel and Spirit and Demon. Principle 2 As all men are alike in Outward Form; so, and with the same infinite variety, all are alike in the Poetic Genius. Principle 3 No man can think, write, or speak from his heart, but he must intend Truth. Thus all sects of Philosophy are from the Poetic Genius, adapted to the weaknesses of every individual. Principle 4 As none by travelling over known lands can find out the unknown; so, from already acquired knowledge, Man could not acquire more; therefore an universal Poetic Genius exists. Principle 5 The Religions of all Nations are derived from each Nation’s different reception of the Poetic Genius, which is everywhere call’d the Spirit of Prophecy. Principle 6 The Jewish and Christian Testaments are an original derivation from the Poetic Genius. This is necessary from the confined nature of bodily sensation. Principle 7 As all men are alike, tho’ infinitely various; so all Religions: and as all similars have one source the True Man is the source, he being the Poetic Genius.
Desire | Despair | Eternal | Man | Organic | Perception | Religion | Sense |
The difference between a bad artist and a good one is the bad artist seems to copy a great deal; the good one really does.
Wassily Kandinsky understood ‘form’ as a form, like an object in the real world; and a object, he said, was a narrative – and so, of course, he disapproved of it. He wanted ‘his music without words’. He wanted to be ‘simple as a child’. He intended, with his ‘inner-self’ to rid himself of ‘philosophical barricades’ (he sat down and wrote something about all this). But in turn his own writing has become a philosophical barricade, even it is a barricade full of holes. It offers a kind of Middle European idea of Buddhism or, anyhow, something too theosophical for me.
Age | Desire | Future | Happy | Ideas | Life | Life | Think |
As to politics, we were like the rest of the country people in England; that is to say, we neither knew nor thought anything about the matter.
Desire | Evil | Speculation | Thought | Thought |
Will Durant, fully William James "Will" Durant
It is true that even across the Himalayan barrier India has sent to us such unquestionable gifts as grammar and logic, philosophy and fables, hypnotism and chess, and above all our numerals and our decimal system. But these are not the essence of her spirit; they are trifles compared to what we may learn from her in the future.
Will Durant, fully William James "Will" Durant
Every form of government tends to perish by excess of its basic principles.
Ability | Desire | Inequality | Man |
Willa Cather, fully Willa Sibert Cather
It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of.
Desire |
Willa Cather, fully Willa Sibert Cather
Men are all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the wild ones. They begin to tell you what's sensible and what's foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody.
Art | Desire | Heart | Life | Life | Office | Passion | Quiet | Work | Art | Old |
Willa Cather, fully Willa Sibert Cather
In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there.
Willa Cather, fully Willa Sibert Cather
Henry Colbert, the miller, always breakfasted with his wife--beyond that he appeared irregularly at the family table.
Desire |