The Only Excuse For God Is That

The Text Has Disappeared Under The Interpretation.

A Few Hours Of Mountain Climbing Make A Blackguard And A Saint Two Rather Similar Creatures.

It Is Only Great Pain--that Slow, Sustained Pain That Takes Its Time, In Which We Are, As It Were, Burned With Smoldering Green Firewood--that Forces Us Philosophers To Sink To Our Ultimate Profundity And To Do Away With All The Trust, Everything Good-natured, Veil-imposing, Mild And Middling, On Which We May Have Previously Based Our Humanity. I Doubt That Such A Pain Makes Us 'better'--but I Know That It Makes Us Deeper.

The First Opinion That Occurs To Us When We Are Suddenly Asked About Something Is Usually Not Our Own But Only The Current One Pertaining To Our Class, Position, Or Parentage; Our Own Opinions Seldom Swim On The Surface.

I Know No Other Way To Associate With Great Tasks Than As Play: As A Sign Of Greatness, This Is An Essential Presupposition.