When One Has Not Had A Good

Only Individuals Have A Sense Of Responsibility.

It Is Only Great Pain--that Slow, Sustained Pain That Takes Its Time, In Which We Are, As It Were, Burned With Smoldering Green Firewood--that Forces Us Philosophers To Sink To Our Ultimate Profundity And To Do Away With All The Trust, Everything Good-natured, Veil-imposing, Mild And Middling, On Which We May Have Previously Based Our Humanity. I Doubt That Such A Pain Makes Us 'better'--but I Know That It Makes Us Deeper.

Thus The Will To Power Strives Towards Oppositions, Towards Displeasure. There Is A Will To Suffering At The Foundation Of All Organic Life (contrary To "happiness" As "goal").

This Tremendous Event Is Still On Its Way, Still Wandering; It Has Not Yet Reached The Ears Of Men. Lightning And Thunder Require Time; The Light On The Stars Requires Time; Deeds Though Done, Still Require Time To Be Seen And Heard. This Deed Is Still More Distant From Them Than The Most Distant Stars - And Yet They Have Done It Themselves.

Natural Death Is Independent Of All Reason And Is Really An Irrational Death, In Which The Pitiable Substance Of The Shell Determines How Long The Kernel Is To Exist Or Not; In Which, Accordingly, The Stunted, Diseased And Dull Witted Jailer Is Lord, And Indicates The Moment At Which His Distinguished Prisoner Shall Die.