Some Men Are Born Posthumously.

Man Is Something To Be Surpassed.

Out Of Damp And Gloomy Days, Out Of Solitude, Out Of Loveless Words Directed At Us, Conclusions Grow Up In Us Like Fungus: One Morning They Are There, We Know Not How, And They Gaze Upon Us, Morose And Gray. Woe To The Thinker Who Is Not The Gardener But Only The Soil Of The Plants That Grow In Him.

Is Not Wounded Vanity The Mother Of All Tragedies?

Every Virtue Has Its Privilege: For Example, That Of Contributing Its Own Little Bundle Of Wood To The Funeral Pyre Of One Condemned.

The Followers Of A Great Man Often Put Their Eyes Out, So That They May Be The Better Able To Sing His Praise.