Hatred Is Partial, But Love Is Still

The World Of Reason Is To Be Regarded As A Great And Immortal Being, Who Ceaselessly Works Out What Is Necessary, And So Makes Himself Lord Also Over What Is Accidental.

People Are Always Talking About Originality; But What Do They Mean? As Soon As We Are Born, The World Begins To Work Upon Us; And This Goes On To The End. And After All, What Can We Call Our Own, Except Energy, Strength, And Will? If I Could Give An Account Of All That I Owe To Great Predecessors And Contemporaries, There Would Be But A Small Balance In My Favor.

When The Healthy Nature Of Man Acts As A Whole, When He Feels Himself To Be In The World As In A Great, Beautiful, Noble, And Valued Whole, When Harmonious Ease Affords Him A Pure And Free Delight, Then The Universe, If It Could Experience Itself, Would Exult, As Having Attained Its Goal, And Admire The Climax Of Its Own Becoming And Essence.

Give Me Those Days With Heart In Riot, The Depths Of Bliss That Touched On Pain, The Force Of Hate, And Love's Disquiet- Ah, Give Me Back My Youth Again!

Everything Perfect In Its Kind Has To Transcend Its Own Kind, It Must Become Something Different And Incomparable. In Some Notes The Nightingale Is Still A Bird; Then It Rises Above Its Class And Seems To Suggest To Every Winged Creature What Singing Is Truly Like.