One Must Conform To The

You Proclaim That One Should Die For The Highest Virtues, Because You Take It For Granted That Nobody's Been Living For Them, Not Even For A Single Hour.

We Sometimes Have A Flash Of Understanding That Amounts To The Insight Of Genius, And Yet It Slowly Withers, Even In Our Hands - Like A Flower. The Form Remains, But The Colours And The Fragrance Are Gone.

Progress Would Be Wonderful - If Only It Would Stop.

Each Person Is A Graveyard Of His Thoughts. They Are Most Beautiful For Us In The Moment Of Their Birth; Later We Can Often Sense A Deep Pain That They Leave Us Indifferent Where Earlier They Enchanted Us.

... All Professional Ideologies Are High-minded. Hunters, For Instance, Would Not Dream Of Calling Themselves The Butchers Of The Woods.