Love Is The Final End Of The

Only An Artist Can Interpret The Meaning Of Life.

Sometimes With The Most Intense Pain A Paralysis Of Sensibility Occurs. The Soul Disintegrates--hence The Deadly Frost--the Free Power Of The Mind--the Shattering, Ceaseless Wit Of This Kind Of Despair. There Is No Inclination For Anything Any More--the Person Is Alone, Like A Baleful Power--as He Has No Connection With The Rest Of The World He Consumes Himself Gradually--and In Accordance With His Own Principle He Is--misanthropic And Misotheos.

When One Begins To Reflect On Philosophy—then Philosophy Seems To Us To Be Everything, Like God, And Love. It Is A Mystical, Highly Potent, Penetrating Idea—which Ceaselessly Drives Us Inward In All Directions. The Decision To Do Philosophy—to Seek Philosophy Is The Act Of Self-liberation—the Thrust Toward Ourselves.

The Mysterious Path Goes Inward. It Is In Us, And Not Anywhere Else, Where The Eternity Of The Worlds, The Past And The Future Are Found.

Many Books Are Longer Than They Seem. They Have Indeed No End. The Boredom That They Cause Is Truly Absolute And Infinite.