When A Man Is In

The Happiness Of Man Is: I Will. The Happiness Of Woman Is: He Wills.

The Best Author Will Be The One Who Is Ashamed To Become A Writer.

God Is Dead. God Remains Dead. And We Have Killed Him. How Shall We Comfort Ourselves, The Murderers Of All Murderers? What Was Holiest And Mightiest Of All That The World Has Yet Owned Has Bled To Death Under Our Knives: Who Will Wipe This Blood Off Us? What Water Is There For Us To Clean Ourselves? What Festivals Of Atonement, What Sacred Games Shall We Have To Invent? Is Not The Greatness Of This Deed Too Great For Us? Must We Ourselves Not Become Gods Simply To Appear Worthy Of It?

One's Own Self Is Well Hidden From One's Own Self; Of All Mines Of Treasure, One's Own Is The Last To Be Dug Up.

However Much We May Feel For The Misery Of Someone Close To Us, We Always Act With Some Artificiality In Their Presence. We Hold-back From Telling Them Everything We Think, Often Because We Do Not Genuinely Mean What We Say; Or Because We Take A Pleasure In Their Plight, Thankful That We Are Not Affected.