Whoever Reaches His Ideal Transcends It Eo

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.

Books For All The World Are Always Foul-smelling Books: The Smell Of Small People Clings To Them.

What We Do In Dreams We Also Do When We Are Awake: We Invent And Fabricate The Person With Whom We Associate - And Immediately Forget We Have Done So.

I Go In Solitude, So As Not To Drink Out Of Everybody's Cistern. When I Am Among The Many I Live As The Many Do, And I Do Not Think I Really Think; After A Time It Always Seems As If They Want To Banish Myself From Myself And Rob Me Of My Soul.

Speaking Is A Beautiful Folly; With That Man Dances Over All Things.