When A Man Is Ill His Very

A Subject For A Great Poet Would Be God's Boredom After The Seventh Day Of Creation.

Behold, I Am Weary Of My Wisdom, Like A Bee That Has Gathered Too Much Honey; I Need Hands Outstretched To Receive It.

What Destroys A Man More Quickly Than To Work, Think And Feel Without Inner Necessity, Without Any Deep Personal Desire, Without Pleasure - As A Mere Automaton Of Duty?

God Is A Gross Answer, An Indelicacy Against Us Thinkers- At Bottom Merely A Gross Prohibition For Us: You Shall Not Think!

Men Inadvertently Comport Themselves With Nobility When They Have Grown Accustomed To Wanting Nothing From Others And Always Giving To Them.