The Object Of Convalescence Ought To Be

How Do You Expect To Learn To Dance When You Have Not Even Learned To Walk! And Above The Dancer Is Still The Flyer And His Bliss.

Does Not The Discipline Of The Scientific Spirit Just Commence When One No Longer Harbours Any Conviction?

But Every Soil Becomes Finally Exhausted, And The Ploughshare Of Evil Must Always Come Once More.

Pitch-black Winter Nights Live In My Bones.

Whoever Despises Himself Still Esteems The Despiser Within Himself.