The Choice is always ours. Then, let me choose
The longest art, the hard Promethean - way
Cherishingly to tend and feed and fan
That inward fire, whose small precarious flame,
Kindled or quenched, creates
The noble or the ignoble men (and women) we are,
The worlds we live in and the very fates,
Our bright or muddy star. Aldous Huxley
