Horrible Experiences Lead Us To Wonder Whether

Could Truth Perhaps Be A Woman Who Has Reasons For Not Permitting Her Reasons To Be Seen? Could Her Name Perhaps Be--to Speak Greek--baubo?... Oh, Those Greeks! They Understood How To Live: To Do That It Is Necessary To Stop Bravely At The Surface, The Fold, The Skin, To Adore The Appearance, To Believe In Forms, In Tones, In Words, In The Whole Olympus Of Appearance! Those Greeks Were Superficial--out Of Profundity!

What Do We Have In Common With The Rosebud, Which Trembles Because A Drop Of Dew Lies On Its Body?

More And More It Seems To Me That The Philosopher, Being Of Necessity A Man Of Tomorrow And The Day After Tomorrow, Has Always Found Himself, And Had To Find Himself, In Contradiction To His Today: His Enemy Was Ever The Ideal Of Today. So Far All These Extraordinary Furtherers Of Men Whom One Calls Philosophers, Though They Themselves Have Rarely Felt Like Friends Of Wisdom But Rather Like Disagreeable Fools And Dangerous Question Marks, Have Found Their Task, Their Hard, Unwanted, Inescapable Task, But Eventually Also The Greatness Of Their Task, In Being The Bad Conscience Of Their Time.

But Thought Is One Thing, The Deed Is Another, And The Image Of The Deed Still Another: The Wheel Of Causality Does Not Roll Between Them.

Of What Is Great One Must Either Be Silent Or Speak With Greatness. With Greatness--that Means Cynically And With Innocence.