Although The Most Acute Judges Of The

The Aphorism, The Apothegm, In Which I Am The First Among The Germans To Be A Master, Are The Forms Of “eternity”; It Is My Ambition To Say In Ten Sentences What Everyone Else Says In A Book — What Everyone Else Does Not Say In A Book.

Such Men Alone Are My Readers, My Proper Readers, My Preordained Readers. Of What Account Are The Rest? The Rest Are Simply... Humanity. One Must Be Superior To Humanity In Power, In Loftiness Of Soul- In Contempt.

In A Seriously Intended Intellectual Emancipation A Person's Mute Passions And Cravings Also Hope To Find Their Advantage.

Has Anyone...any Distinct Notion Of What Poets Of A Stronger Age Understood By The Word Inspiration? ... There Is An Ecstasy Such That The Immese Strain Of It Is Sometimes Relaxed By A Flood Of Tears, Along With Which One's Steps Either Rush Or Involuntarily Lag, Alternately. There Is The Feeling That One Is Completely Out Of Hand, With The Very Distinct Consciousness Of An Endless Number Of Fine Thrills And Quiverings To The Very Toes... Everything Happens Quite Involuntarily, As If In A Tempestuous Outburst Of Freedom, Of Absoluteness, Of Power And Divinity.

The Empty, The One, The Unmoved, The Full, Satiation, Wanting Nothing--that Would Be My Evil: In Short, Dreamless Sleep.