Man Is Almost Always As Wicked As

Men Are Ready To Suffer Anything From Others Or From Heaven Itself, Provided That, When It Comes To Words, They Are Untouched.

Rest Forever, Tired Heart. The Final Illusion Has Perished. The One We Believed Eternal Is Gone. Just Like That. Out The Door Desire Follows Hope. Rest Forever. Enough Throbbing. Nothing Deserves Your Attention Nor Is The Earth Worth A Sigh. Bitterness And Boredom Is Life, Nothing Else Ever, And The World Is Mud. Quiet Now. Despair For The Last Time. Fate Gives Us Dying As A Gift. Now Turn From The Hills, The Ugly Hidden Power Which Rules For The Common Evil And The Infinite Vanity Of It All.

The Old Man, Especially If He Is In Society In The Privacy Of His Thoughts, Though He May Protest The Opposite, Never Stops Believing That, Through Some Singular Exception Of The Universal Rule, He Can In Some Unknown And Inexplicable Way Still Make An Impression On Women.

Death Is Not Evil, For It Frees Man From All Ills And Takes Away His Desires Along With Desire's Rewards.

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.