Truths Are Illlusions Which We Have Forgotten

It Is Regrettable That A Dostoyevsky Did Not Live Near This Most Interesting Of All Decadents (jesus Christ) - I Mean Someone Who Would Have Known How To Sense The Very Stirring Charm Of Such A Mixture Of The Sublime, The Sickly, And The Childlike.

A Book Calls For Pen, Ink, And A Writing Desk; Today The Rule Is That Pen, Ink, And A Writing Desk Call For A Book.

Have You Heard Of That Madman Who Lit A Lantern In The Bright Morning Hours, Ran To The Market Place, And Cried Incessantly, I Seek God! I Seek God! As Many Of Those Who Do Not Believe In God Were Standing Around Just Then, He Provoked Much Laughter... Whither Is God, He Cried. I Shall Tell You. We Have Killed Him - You And I. All Of Us Are Murderers.... God Is Dead. God Remains Dead. And We Have Killed Him.

You Know These Things As Thoughts, But Your Thoughts Are Not Your Experiences, They Are An Echo And After-effect Of Your Experiences: As When Your Room Trembles Whe Na Carriage Goes Past. I However Am Sitting In The Carriage, And Often I Am The Carriage Itself. Ina Man Who Thinks Like This, The Dichotomy Between Thinking And Feeling, Intellect And Passion, Has Really Disappeared. He Feels His Thoughts. He Can Fall In Love With An Idea. An Idea Can Make Him Ill.

Tolerance Is A Proof Of Distrust In One's Own Ideals.