Not The Intensity But The Duration Of

One Can Also Be Undignified And Flattering Toward A Virtue.

Truths Are Illusions Of Which One Has Forgotten That They Are Illusions, Metaphors That Have Become Worn-out And Deprived Of Their Sensuous Force, Coins That Have Lost Their Imprint And Are Now No Longer Seen As Coins But As Metal.

To Go On Vegetating In Cowardly Dependence On Physicians And Machinations, After The Meaning Of Life, The Right To Life, Has Been Lost, That Ought To Prompt A Profound Contempt In Society.

There Is Something Laughable About The Sight Of Authors Who Enjoy The Rustling Folds Of Long And Involved Sentences: They Are Trying To Cover Up Their Feet.

Out Of Damp And Gloomy Days, Out Of Solitude, Out Of Loveless Words Directed At Us, Conclusions Grow Up In Us Like Fungus: One Morning They Are There, We Know Not How, And They Gaze Upon Us, Morose And Gray. Woe To The Thinker Who Is Not The Gardener But Only The Soil Of The Plants That Grow In Him.