[Passage from my journal, 4 April 1968]
6:19 pm PST—Oh God, I don’t have anything to say. What can be said when a great man dies? I hate the men that killed him—and I shouldn’t hate them. I hope that they die—and I shouldn’t wish for any man’s death. A great man is gone; a saint has died. Now there is no one—there is nothing.
Some men teach lessons
Some give lessons by their lives
Some men only hate
And in hating they die.
And they then kill.
Saints depart from the world—