Is Not Wounded Vanity The Mother Of

We Grow Hostile To Many An Artist Or Writer, Not Because We Finally Come To See He Has Deceived Us, But Because He Thought No Subtler Means Were Required To Ensnare Us.

Such Men Alone Are My Readers, My Proper Readers, My Preordained Readers. Of What Account Are The Rest? The Rest Are Simply... Humanity. One Must Be Superior To Humanity In Power, In Loftiness Of Soul- In Contempt.

I Will Make An Attempt To Attain Freedom, The Youthful Soul Says To Itself; And Is It To Be Hindered In This By The Fact That Two Nations Happen To Hate And Fight One Another, Or That Two Continents Are Separated By An Ocean, Or That All Around It A Religion Is Taught With Did Not Yet Exist A Couple Of Thousand Years Ago. All That Is Not You, It Says To Itself.

When One Has A Great Deal To Put Into It A Day Has A Hundred Pockets.

Whatever The State Saith Is A Lie; Whatever It Hath Is A Theft: All Is Counterfeit In It, The Gnawing, Sanguinary, Insatiate Monster.