I Believe That History Is Capable Of

It Is Not For Us . . . To Send Out Missionaries To Foreign Peoples; It Is Our Task To Build Up Our Own Western Culture.

Life Has Always Seemed To Me Like A Plant That Lives On Its Rhizome. Its True Life Is Invisible, Hidden In The Rhizome. The Part That Appears Above Ground Lasts Only A Single Summer. Then It Withers Away—an Ephemeral Apparition. When We Think Of The Unending Growth And Decay Of Life And Civilizations, We Cannot Escape The Impression Of Absolute Nullity. Yet I Have Never Lost A Sense Of Something That Lives And Endures Underneath The Eternal Flux. What We See Is The Blossom, Which Passes. The Rhizome Remains.

I Cannot Love Anyone If I Hate Myself. That Is The Reason Why We Feel So Extremely Uncomfortable In The Presence Of People Who Are Noted For Their Special Virtuousness, For They Radiate An Atmosphere Of The Torture They Inflict On Themselves. That Is Not A Virtue But A Vice.

A Man Who Has Not Passed Through The Inferno Of His Passions Has Never Overcome Them.

Nature Is Not Matter Only. She Is Also A Spirit