Christians Call It Faith ... I Call

It Is Only Great Pain--that Slow, Sustained Pain That Takes Its Time, In Which We Are, As It Were, Burned With Smoldering Green Firewood--that Forces Us Philosophers To Sink To Our Ultimate Profundity And To Do Away With All The Trust, Everything Good-natured, Veil-imposing, Mild And Middling, On Which We May Have Previously Based Our Humanity. I Doubt That Such A Pain Makes Us 'better'--but I Know That It Makes Us Deeper.

At The Very Moment When Someone Is Beginning To Take Philosophy Seriously, The Whole World Believes The Opposite.

He Who Bears Injustice Alone Is Terrible To Behold.

This Tremendous Event Is Still On Its Way, Still Wandering; It Has Not Yet Reached The Ears Of Men. Lightning And Thunder Require Time; The Light On The Stars Requires Time; Deeds Though Done, Still Require Time To Be Seen And Heard. This Deed Is Still More Distant From Them Than The Most Distant Stars - And Yet They Have Done It Themselves.

Love As A Passion—it Is Our European Specialty—must Absolutely Be Of Noble Origin; As Is Well Known, Its Invention Is Due To The Provencal Poet-cavaliers, Those Brilliant, Ingenious Men Of The "gai Saber," To Whom Europe Owes So Much, And Almost Owes Itself.