Pitch-black Winter Nights Live In My Bones.

The Snake That Cannot Shed Its Skin Perishes.

The Great Man... Is Colder, Harder, Less Hesitating, And Without Fear Of 'opinion'; He Lacks The Virtues That Accompany Respect And 'respectability,' And Altogether Everything That Is The 'virtue Of The Herd.' If He Cannot Lead, He Goes Alone... He Knows He Is Incommunicable: He Finds It Tasteless To Be Familiar... When Not Speaking To Himself, He Wears A Mask. There Is A Solitude Within Him That Is Inaccessible To Praise Or Blame.

In Compassionate Men, Severity Is A Virtue.

I Love Him Who Is Ashamed When The Dice Fall In His Favour, And Who Then Asketh: "am I A Dishonest Player?" - For He Is Willing To Succumb.

Our Sense Of The Tragic Waxes And Wanes With Our Sensuality.