Life Is At An End Where The

That Which Does Not Kill Us Makes Us Stronger.

The Consequences Of Our Actions Take Hold Of Us, Quite Indifferent To Our Claim That Meanwhile We Have 'improved.

The Poet Presents His Thoughts Festively, On The Carriage Of Rhythm: Usually Because They Could Not Walk.

It Seems To Me That To Take A Book Of Mine Into His Hands Is One Of The Rarest Distinctions That Anyone Can Confer Upon Himself. I Even Assume That He Removes His Shoes When He Does So-not To Speak Of Boots.

Different Types Of Dangerous Lives-you Have No Idea What You Are Living Through; You Rush Through Life As If You Were Drunk And Now And Then Fall Down Some Staircase. But Thanks To Your Drunkenness You Never Break A Limb; Your Muscles Are Too Relaxed And Your Brain Too Benighted For You To Find The Stones Of These Stairs As Hard As We Do.