One May Sometimes Tell A Lie, But

Could Truth Perhaps Be A Woman Who Has Reasons For Not Permitting Her Reasons To Be Seen? Could Her Name Perhaps Be--to Speak Greek--baubo?... Oh, Those Greeks! They Understood How To Live: To Do That It Is Necessary To Stop Bravely At The Surface, The Fold, The Skin, To Adore The Appearance, To Believe In Forms, In Tones, In Words, In The Whole Olympus Of Appearance! Those Greeks Were Superficial--out Of Profundity!

What Then Is Truth? A Movable Host Of Metaphors, Metonymies, And Anthropomorphisms: In Short, A Sum Of Human Relations Which Have Been Poetically And Rhetorically Intensified, Transferred, And Embellished, And Which, After Long Usage, Seem To A People To Be Fixed, Canonical, And Binding. Truths Are Illusions Which We Have Forgotten Are Illusions — They Are Metaphors That Have Become Worn Out And Have Been Drained Of Sensuous Force.

Once We Have Found Ourselves, We Must Understand How From Time To Time To Lose--and Then To Find--ourselves Once Again: Assuming,that Is, That We Are Thinkers. For A Thinker It Is A Drawback To Be Bound To A Single Person All The Time.

Do I Advise You To Love The Neighbor? I Suggest Rather To Escape From The Neighbor And To Love Those Who Are The Farthest Away From You. Higher Than The Love For The Neighbor Is The Love For The Man Who Is Distant And Has Still To Come.

When Art Dresses Itself In The Most Worn-out Material It Is Most Easily Recognized As Art.