The Sensible Author Writes For No Other

I Am The Leading Strings Of The Ego And The Prompter Of Its Concepts.

I Looked For Great Men, But All I Found Were The Apes Of Their Ideals.

We Have No Organ At All For Knowledge, For Truth: We Know (or Believe Or Imagine) Precisely As Much As May Be Useful In The Interest Of The Human Herd, The Species: And Even What Is Here Called Usefulness Is In The End Only A Belief, Something Imagined And Perhaps Precisely That Most Fatal Piece Of Stupidity By Which We Shall One Day Perish.

A Good Aphorism Is Too Hard For The Tooth Of Time, And Is Not Worn Away By All The Centuries, Although It Serves As Food For Every Epoch. Hence It Is The Greatest Paradox In Literature, The Imperishable In The Midst Of Change, The Nourishment Which Always Remains Highly Valued, As Salt Does, And Never Becomes Stupid Like Salt.

Let Old Ones Go. Dont Be A Memory-monger! Once You Were Young──now You Are Even Younger.