I Hope For Nothing. I Fear Nothing.

When I Encounter A Sunrise, A Painting, A Woman, Or An Idea That Makes My Heart Bound Like A Young Calf, Then I Know I Am Standing In Front Of Happiness.

All My Life I Struggled To Stretch My Mind To The Breaking Point, Until It Began To Creak, In Order To Create A Great Thought Which Might Be Able To Give A New Meaning To Life, A New Meaning To Death, And To Console Mankind.

Life Is Trouble. Only Death Is Not. To Be Alive Is To Undo Your Belt And *look* For Trouble.

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?

Before Me Is The Abyss. How Can I Leap Across It? And If I Do Not Leap, How Shall I Ever Be Able To Reach God?