In Cheerful Souls There Is No Wit.

Sometimes With The Most Intense Pain A Paralysis Of Sensibility Occurs. The Soul Disintegrates--hence The Deadly Frost--the Free Power Of The Mind--the Shattering, Ceaseless Wit Of This Kind Of Despair. There Is No Inclination For Anything Any More--the Person Is Alone, Like A Baleful Power--as He Has No Connection With The Rest Of The World He Consumes Himself Gradually--and In Accordance With His Own Principle He Is--misanthropic And Misotheos.

The Artist Belongs To His Work, Not The Work To The Artist.

Play Is Experimenting With Chance.

All Power Appears Only In Transition. Permanent Power Is Stuff.

Doing Philosophy Is Only A Threefold Or Double Kind Of Waking--being Awake--consciousness.