Existence Begins In Every Instant.

Man Is No Longer An Artist, He Has Become A Work Of Art.

Out Of Damp And Gloomy Days, Out Of Solitude, Out Of Loveless Words Directed At Us, Conclusions Grow Up In Us Like Fungus: One Morning They Are There, We Know Not How, And They Gaze Upon Us, Morose And Gray. Woe To The Thinker Who Is Not The Gardener But Only The Soil Of The Plants That Grow In Him.

What Does Not Destroy Me, Makes Me Stronger.

About What We Neither Know Nor Feel Precisely While Awake-whether We Have A Good Or A Bad Conscience Toward A Certain Person-our Dreams Instruct Us Fully And Unambiguously.

When Somebody Dies We Usually Need Reasons For Consolation, Not So Much To Alleviate Our Pain As To Excuse Ourselves For So Readily Feeling Consoled.