I Would Believe Only In A God

We Are, All Of Us, Growing Volcanoes That Approach The Hour Of Their Eruption, But How Near Or Distant That Is, Nobody Knows- Not Even God.

What Is Originality? To See Something That Has No Name As Yet And Hence Cannot Be Mentioned Although It Stares Us All In The Face. The Way Men Usually Are, It Takes A Name To Make Something Visible For Them.

The Body Is A Big Sagacity, A Plurality With One Sense, A War And A Peace, A Flock And A Shepherd.

You Know These Things As Thoughts, But Your Thoughts Are Not Your Experiences, They Are An Echo And After-effect Of Your Experiences: As When Your Room Trembles Whe Na Carriage Goes Past. I However Am Sitting In The Carriage, And Often I Am The Carriage Itself. Ina Man Who Thinks Like This, The Dichotomy Between Thinking And Feeling, Intellect And Passion, Has Really Disappeared. He Feels His Thoughts. He Can Fall In Love With An Idea. An Idea Can Make Him Ill.

Subordination To Morality Can Be Slavish Or Vain Or Self- Interested Or Resigned Or Gloomily Enthusiastic Or Thoughtless Or An Act Of Despair, Just As Subordination To A Prince Can Be: In Itself It Is Nothing Moral.