Man Rarely Places A Proper Valuation Upon

I Believe That When I Am Dead, I Am Dead. I Believe That With My Death I Am Just As Much Obliterated As The Last Mosquito You And I Squashed.

Man Is A Flux Of States Of Consciousness, A Flow Of Passing Thoughts, Each Thought Of Self Another Self, A Myriad Thoughts, A Myriad Selves, A Continual Becoming But Never Being, A Will-of-the-wisp Flitting Of Ghosts In Ghostland.

I Would Rather Be A Superb Meteor, Every Atom Of Me In Magnificent Glow, Than A Sleepy And Permanent Planet.

But, – And There It Is, – We Want To Live And Move, Though We Have No Reason To, Because It Happens That It Is The Nature Of Life To Live And Move, To Want To Live And Move. If It Were Not For This, Life Would Be Dead. It Is Because Of This Life That Is In You That You Dream Of Your Immortality.

Man Is Man Because He Chanced To Develop Intelligence Instead Of Instinct; Otherwise He Would To This Day Have Remained Among The Anthropoid Apes. He Has Turned Away From Nature, Become Unnatural, As It Were, Disliked The Earth Upon Which He Found Himself, And Changed The Face Of It Somewhat To His Liking.