It Is Not When Truth Is Dirty,

Everything Goes, Everything Comes Back; Eternally Rolls The Wheel Of Being. Everything Dies, Everything Blossoms Again; Eternally Runs The Year Of Being. Everything Breaks, Everything Is Joined Anew; Eternally The Same House Of Being Is Built. Everything Parts, Everything Greets Every Other Thing Again; Eternally The Ring Of Being Remains Faithful To Itself. In Every Now, Being Begins; Round Every Here Rolls The Sphere There. The Center Is Everywhere. Bent Is The Path Of Eternity.

I Cook Every Chance In My Pot. And Only When It Is Cooked Through Do I Welcome It As My Food.

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.

It Is An End With Priests And Gods, If Man Becomes Scientific. Moral: Science Is The Thing Forbidden In Itself - It Alone Is Forbidden. Science Is The First Sin, The Germ Of All Sin, Original Sin. This Alones Is Mortality: Thou Shalt Not Know.

Has Anyone...any Distinct Notion Of What Poets Of A Stronger Age Understood By The Word Inspiration? ... There Is An Ecstasy Such That The Immese Strain Of It Is Sometimes Relaxed By A Flood Of Tears, Along With Which One's Steps Either Rush Or Involuntarily Lag, Alternately. There Is The Feeling That One Is Completely Out Of Hand, With The Very Distinct Consciousness Of An Endless Number Of Fine Thrills And Quiverings To The Very Toes... Everything Happens Quite Involuntarily, As If In A Tempestuous Outburst Of Freedom, Of Absoluteness, Of Power And Divinity.