In The End We Are

From The Sun I Learned This: When He Goes Down, Overrich; He Pours Gold Into The Sea Out Of Inexhaustible Riches, So That Even The Poorest Fisherman Still Rows With Golden Oars. For This I Once Saw And I Did Not Tire Of My Tears As I Watched It.

Verily, I Do Not Like Them, The Merciful Who Feel Blessed In Their Pity: They Are Lacking Too Much In Shame. If I Must Pity, At Least I Do Not Want It Known; And If I Do Pity, It Is Preferably From A Distance.

Whoever Has Not Two-thirds Of His Time To Himself, Is A Slave.

Every One Being Allowed To Learn To Read, Ruineth In The Long Run Not Only Writing But Also Thinking.

For The Woman, The Man Is A Means: The End Is Always The Child.