Man Is No Longer An Artist, He

Behold! I Am Weary Of My Wisdom, Like The Bee That Has Gathered Too Much Honey; I Need Hands Outstretched To Take It From Me. I Wish To Spread It And Bestow It, Until The Wise Have Once More Become Joyous In Their Folly, And The Poor Happy In Their Riches.

Art Is Essentially The Affirmation, The Blessing, And The Deification Of Existence.

Such Men Alone Are My Readers, My Proper Readers, My Preordained Readers. Of What Account Are The Rest? The Rest Are Simply... Humanity. One Must Be Superior To Humanity In Power, In Loftiness Of Soul- In Contempt.

We Take A Fancy To Something: And Scarcely Have We Thoroughly Taken A Fancy To It When That Tyrant In Us Calls Out: "give Me Thatin Sacrifice"--and We Give It.

The 'kingdom Of Heaven' Is A Condition Of The Heart - Not Something That Comes 'upon The Earth' Or 'after Death.'