There Is Not Enough Religion In The

It Is The Evening That Questions Thus From Within Me.

Watch Them Clamber, These Swift Monkeys! They Clamber Over One Another And Thus Drag One Another Into The Mud And The Depth. They All Want To Get To The Throne: That Is Their Madness — As If Happiness Sat On The Throne. Often, Mud Sits On The Throne — And Often The Throne Also On Mud. Mad They All Appear To Me, Clambering Monkeys And Overardent. Foul Smells Their Idol, The Cold Monster: Foul, They Smell To Me Altogether, These Idolators.

One Does Not Hate So Long As One Continues To Rate Low, But Only When One Has Come To Rate Equal Or Higher.

Either One Does Not Dream, Or One Does So Interestingly. One Should Learn To Spend One's Waking Life In The Same Way: Not At All, Or Interestingly.

A Labyrinthine Man Never Seeks The Truth, But Only His Ariadne.