Whatever Does Not Kill Me Makes Me

In Those Days It Was Possible For A Greek To Flee From An Over-abundant Reality As Though It Were But The Tricky Scheming Off The Imagination-and To Flee, Not Like Plato Into The Land Of Eternal Ideas, Into The Workshop Off The World-creator, Feasting One's Eyes On The Unblemished Unbreakable Archetypes, But Into The Rigor Mortis Off The Coldest Emptiest Concept Off All, The Concept Of Being.

His (the Theologian) Basic Instinct Of Self Preservation Forbids Him To Respect Reality At Any Point Or Even To Let It Get A Word In.

It Is, Indeed, A Fact That, In The Midst Of Society And Sociability Every Evil Inclination Has To Place Itself Under Such Great Restraint, Don So Many Masks, Lay Itself So Often On The Procrustean Bed Of Virtue, That One Could Well Speak Of A Martyrdom Of The Evil Man. In Solitude All This Falls Away. He Who Is Evil Is At His Most Evil In Solitude: Which Is Where He Is At His Best - And Thus To The Eye Of Him Who Sees Everywhere Only A Spectacle Also At His Most Beautiful.

In Music The Passions Enjoy Themselves.

I Despise Mystics, They Fancy Themselves So Deep, When They Aren't Even Superficial.