Our happiness here is all vain glory,
This false world is but transitory,
The flesh is weak, the Fiend is slee
Timor mortis conturbat me.
--William Dunbar
The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. — Kate Chopin, The Awakening
