We Are All Afraid Of The Truth.

When One Is Young, One Venerates And Despises Without That Art Of Nuances Which Constitutes The Best Gain Of Life, And It Is Only Fair That One Has To Pay Dearly For Having Assaulted Men And Things In This Manner With Yes And No. Everything Is Arranged So That The Worst Of Tastes, The Taste For The Unconditional, Should Be Cruelly Fooled And Abused Until A Man Learns To Put A Little Art Into His Feelings And Rather To Risk Trying Even What Is Artificial — As The Real Artists Of Life Do.

Moderation Sees Itself As Beautiful; It Is Unaware That In The Eye Of The Immoderate It Appears Black And Sober And Consequently Ugly-looking.

Is Not Wounded Vanity The Mother Of All Tragedies?

I Do Not Give Alms; I Am Not Poor Enough For That.

Where There Is Happiness, There Is Found Pleasure In Nonsense. The Transformation Of Experience Into Its Opposite, Of The Suitable Into The Unsuitable, The Obligatory Into The Optional (but In Such A Manner That This Process Produces No Injury And Is Only Imagined In Jest), Is A Pleasure.