All Life Is The Struggle, The Effort

The Most Radical Division That It Is Possible To Make Of Humanity Is That Which Splits It Into Two Classes Of Creatures: Those Who Make Great Demands On Themselves, Piling Up Difficulties And Duties; And Those Who Demand Nothing Special Of Themselves, But For Whom To Live Is To Be Every Moment What They Already Are, Without Imposing On Themselves Any Effort Towards Perfection, Mere Buoys That Float On The Waves.

Life Is A Terrible Conflict, A Grandiose And Atrocious Confluence. Hunting Submerges Man Deliberately In That Formidable Mystery And Therefore Contains Something Of Religious Rite And Emotion In Which Homage Is Paid To What Is Divine, Transcendent, And In The Laws Of Nature.

The Poet Begins Where The Man Ends. The Man's Lot Is To Live His Human Life, The Poet's To Invent What Is Nonexistent.

I Think That The Philosopher Must, For His Own Purposes, Carry Methodological Strictness To An Extreme When He Is Investigating And Pursuing His Truths, But When He Is Ready To Enunciate Them And Give Them Out, He Ought To Avoid The Cynical Skill With Which Some Scientists, Like A Hercules At The Fair, Amuse Themselves By Displaying To The Public The Biceps Of Their Technique.

The Essence Of Man Is, Discontent, Divine Discontent; A Sort Of Love Without A Beloved, The Ache We Feel In A Member We No Longer Have.