When A Nation Is On The Downward

God Is Dead. God Remains Dead. And We Have Killed Him. How Shall We Comfort Ourselves, The Murderers Of All Murderers? What Was Holiest And Mightiest Of All That The World Has Yet Owned Has Bled To Death Under Our Knives: Who Will Wipe This Blood Off Us? What Water Is There For Us To Clean Ourselves? What Festivals Of Atonement, What Sacred Games Shall We Have To Invent? Is Not The Greatness Of This Deed Too Great For Us? Must We Ourselves Not Become Gods Simply To Appear Worthy Of It?

Every Achievement, Every Step Forward In Knowledge, Is The Consequence Of Courage, Of Toughness Towards Oneself, Of Sincerity To Oneself

Perhaps I Know Best Why It Is Man Alone Who Laughs; He Alone Suffers So Deeply That He Had To Invent Laughter.

The One Seeks A Midwife To Deliver His Thoughts, The Other, Someone To Assist: Thus A Good Conversation Comes Into Being.

Whoever Commits To Paper What He Suffers Becomes A Melancholy Author: But He Becomes A Serious Author When He Tells Us What He Suffered And Why He Now Reposes In Joy.