Every Perfect Traveler Always Creates The Country

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

May He Be Cursed On Earth Who Gives His Trust To Virtue, That Bankrupt Crone Who Takes Our Life's Pure Gold And Gives But Bad Receipts For Payment In The Lower World. Ah, Passers-by That Stroll, Travelers That Come And Go, All That I Had, I Placed On Virtue, And Lost The Game!

What Is Truth? What Is Falsehood? Whatever Gives Wings To Men, Whatever Produces Great Works And Great Souls And Lifts Up A Man's Height Above The Earth - That's True. Whatever Clips Off Man's Wings - That's False.

Whoever Climbed The Lord's Mountain Had To Possess Clean Hands And An Innocent Heart; Otherwise The Summit Would Kill Him. Today The Doorway Is Deserted. Soiled Hands And Sinful Hearts Are Able To Pass By Without Fear, For The Summit Kills No Longer.

To Cleave That Sea [the Aegean] In The Gentle Autumnal Season, Murmuring The Name Of Each Islet, Is To My Mind The Joy Most Apt To Transport The Heart Of Man Into Paradise.