There Is Only One Sin God Will

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

The Major And Almost Only Theme Of All My Work Is The Struggle Of Man With "god": The Unyielding, Inextinguishable Struggle Of The Naked Worm Called "man" Against The Terrifying Power And Darkness Of The Forces Within Him And Around Him.

Before Me Is The Abyss. How Can I Leap Across It? And If I Do Not Leap, How Shall I Ever Be Able To Reach God?

Fools, Art Is A Heavy Task, More Heavy Than Gold Crowns; It's Far More Difficult To Match Firm Words Than Armies, They're Disciplined Troops, Unconquered, To Be Placed In Rhythm, The Mind's Most Mighty Foe, And Not Disperse In Air. I'd Give, Believe Me, A Whole Land For One Good Song, For I Know Well That Only Words, That Words Alone, Like The High Mountains, Have No Fear Of Age Or Death.

I've Stopped Thinking All The Time Of What Happened Yesterday. And Stopped Asking What's Going To Happen Tomorrow. What's Happening Today, This Minute, Is What I Care About.