There Is A Rollicking Kindness That Looks

Books That Teach Us To Dance: There Are Writers Who, By Portraying The Impossible As Possible, And By Speaking Of Morality And Genius As If Both Were High-spirited Freedom, As If Man Were Rising Up On Tiptoe And Simply Had To Dance Out Of Inner Pleasure.

A Certain Type Of Person Strives To Become A Master Over All, And To Extend His Force, His Will To Power, And To Subdue All That Resists It. But He Encounters The Power Of Others, And Comes To An Arrangement, A Union, With Those That Are Like Him: Thus They Work Together To Serve The Will To Power. And The Process Goes On.

He Who Fights With Monsters Might Take Care Lest He Thereby Become A Monster. Is Not Life A Hundred Times Too Short For Us To Bore Ourselves?

His (the Theologian) Basic Instinct Of Self Preservation Forbids Him To Respect Reality At Any Point Or Even To Let It Get A Word In.

Every Week We Ought To Have One Hour For Recieving Letters, Then Go Take A Bath.