Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies?
Reality is captured in the categorical nets of Language only at the expense of fatal distortion.
My formula for happiness: a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal.
But it is the same with man as with the tree. The more he seeketh to rise into the height and light, the more vigorously do his roots struggle earthward, downward, into the dark and deep — into the evil.
Love is a state in which a man sees things most decidedly as they are not.
Our treasure lies in the beehive of our knowledge. We are perpetually on the way thither, being by nature winged insects and honey gatherers of the mind.