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 power, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man when he gets 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 poets, all musicians; we all have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.

Henry Miller