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 is something in us which justifies the tale of Prometheus. Even before I was fifteen I was quietly planning to leave Turkey, to go and seek what fortunes awaited me in new and strange lands—a course which my imagination painted very attractively. America beckoned to me more than any other country, perhaps because I thought there were no classes there, and that every one met on an equal footing and worked out his own salvation.

We are all the possessors of two kinds of knowledge: one absorbed from experience, books, and hearsay, which we call facts; the other, a knowledge that comes to us through our own immortal selves. This last it is impossible to analyse, since it partakes of the unseen and the untranslatable. We feel it, that is all. This subconscious knowledge—to which many of us attach far greater importance than we do to cold facts—is usually as remote as a distant sound, though at times it may be so clear as to be almost palpable. This secondary knowledge told me I must go to America—America that rose so luminous, so full of hope and promise on the never-ending horizon of my young life.

I had not the remotest idea of how my dream of going there could be realized; but I believe that if one keeps on dreaming a dream hard enough, it will eventually become a reality. And so did mine. A Greek I knew was appointed