It Is Inhuman To Bless Where One

Pain Makes Hens And Poets Cackle.

It Is Inhuman To Bless Where One Is Cursed.

The Living Is Merely A Type Of What Is Dead, And A Very Rare Type.

Strong Currents Drag Many Stones And Bushes Along With Them, Strong Intellects Many Dense And Muddled Minds.

One Must Shed The Bad Taste Of Wanting To Agree With Many. "good" Is No Longer Good When One's Neighbor Mouths It. And How Should There Be A "common Good"! The Term Contradicts Itself: Whatever Can Be Common Always Has Little Value. In The End It Must Be As It Is And Always Has Been: Great Things Remain For The Great, Abysses For The Profound, Nuances And Shudders For The Refined, And, In Brief, All That Is Rare For The Rare.