Chains Of Iron Or Of Silk-both Are

Man Is Never So Authentically Himself As When At Play.

Folly, Thou Conquerest, And I Must Yield! Against Stupidity The Very Gods Themselves Contend In Vain. Exalted Reason, Resplendent Daughter Of The Head Divine, Wise Foundress Of The System Of The World, Guide Of The Stars, Who Are Thou Then, If Thou, Bound To The Tail Of Folly's Uncurb'd Steed, Must, Vainly Shrieking, With The Drunken Crowd, Eyes Open, Plunge Down Headlong In The Abyss.

Everlastingly Chained To A Single Little Fragment Of The Whole, Man Himself Develops Into Nothing But A Fragment; Everlastingly In His Ear The Monotonous Sound Of The Wheel That He Turns, He Never Develops The Harmony Of His Being, And Instead Of Putting The Stamp Of Humanity Upon His Own Nature, He Becomes Nothing More Than The Imprint Of His Occupation Or Of His Specialized Knowledge.

Rigor Pushed Too Far Is Sure To Miss Its Aim, However Good, As The Bow Snaps That Is Bent Too Stiffly.

Ever Building, Building To The Clouds, Still Building Higher, And Never Reflecting That The Poor Narrow Basis Cannot Sustain The Giddy Tottering Column.