Man Is No Longer An Artist, He

The Courage Of All One Really Knows Comes But Late In Life.

Or Shall I Go Out As A Light Does, Not First Blown Out By The Wind, But Grown Tired And Weary Of Itself - A Burnt Out Light? Or Finally, Shall I Blow Myself Out, So As Not To Burn Out?

It Is, Indeed, A Fact That, In The Midst Of Society And Sociability Every Evil Inclination Has To Place Itself Under Such Great Restraint, Don So Many Masks, Lay Itself So Often On The Procrustean Bed Of Virtue, That One Could Well Speak Of A Martyrdom Of The Evil Man. In Solitude All This Falls Away. He Who Is Evil Is At His Most Evil In Solitude: Which Is Where He Is At His Best - And Thus To The Eye Of Him Who Sees Everywhere Only A Spectacle Also At His Most Beautiful.

I Believe Only In French Culture And Consider Everything In Europe That Calls Itself 'culture' A Misunderstanding, Not To Speak Of German Culture.

Life Is That Which Must Overcome Itself Again And Again