In All Climates, Under All Skies, Man's

The Thought That Really Crushes Us Is The Thought Of The Futility Of Life Of Which Death Is The Visible Manifestation.

The Artisan Or Scientist Or The Follower Of Whatever Discipline Who Has The Habit Of Comparing Himself Not With Other Followers But With The Discipline Itself Will Have A Lower Opinion Of Himself, The More Excellent He Is.

What Do You Do There, Moon, In The Sky? Tell Me What You Do, Silent Moon. When Evening Comes You Rise And Go Contemplating Wastelands; Then You Set.

Of Men Eternally Dear! Happy Indeed If You Have Breathing-space From Pain: Blessed All The More If Death Should Heal You Of The Pain You Fear!

In All Climates, Under All Skies, Man's Happiness Is Always Somewhere Else.