I Notice That Autumn Is More The

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.

We Are More Pained When One Of Our Friends Is Guilty Of Something Shameful Than When We Do It Ourselves.

What Do You Regard As Most Humane? To Spare Someone Shame.

I Love Him Who Loveth His Virtue: For Virtue Is The Will To Down-going, And An Arrow Of Longing.

But Let Me Open Up My Heart To You Completely, My Friends: If There Were Gods, How Could I Bear Not Being A God! Hence, There Areno Gods. I Drew This Conclusion, To Be Sure--but Now It Draws Me.