Every Word Is A Prejudice.

The Idealist Is Incorrigible: If He Is Thrown Out Of His Heaven He Makes An Ideal Of His Hell.

Watch Them Clamber, These Swift Monkeys! They Clamber Over One Another And Thus Drag One Another Into The Mud And The Depth. They All Want To Get To The Throne: That Is Their Madness — As If Happiness Sat On The Throne. Often, Mud Sits On The Throne — And Often The Throne Also On Mud. Mad They All Appear To Me, Clambering Monkeys And Overardent. Foul Smells Their Idol, The Cold Monster: Foul, They Smell To Me Altogether, These Idolators.

And So Do You Suppose It Must Be A Piece-work Because It Has Been Given To You (and Could Only Be Given To You) In Pieces?

We Only Hear Questions That We Are Able To Answer.

Foolish Is My Happiness, And Foolish Things Will It Speak: It Is Still Too Young—so Have Patience With It!