Plato Was A Bore.

When Anyone Apologizes To Us He Has To Do It Very Expertly: Otherwise We Might Easily Come To See Ourselves As The Guilty Party And Experience Unpleasant Feelings.

Whoever Has Really Sacrificed Anything, Knows That He Wanted And Got Something In Return.

Why Couldn't The World That Concerns Us- Be A Fiction? And If Somebody Asked, 'but To Be A Fiction There Surely Belongs An Author?'- Couldn't One Answer Simply: 'why? Doesn't This "belongs" Perhaps Belong To The Fiction, Too?'

Out Of Damp And Gloomy Days, Out Of Solitude, Out Of Loveless Words Directed At Us, Conclusions Grow Up In Us Like Fungus: One Morning They Are There, We Know Not How, And They Gaze Upon Us, Morose And Gray. Woe To The Thinker Who Is Not The Gardener But Only The Soil Of The Plants That Grow In Him.

One Does Not Want To Be Deceived, Under The Supposition That It Is Injurious, Dangerous, Or Fatal To Be Deceived.