Books and drafts mean something quite different for different thinkers. One collects in a book the lights he was able to steal and carry home swiftly out of the rays of some insight that suddenly dawned on him, while another thinker offers us nothing but shadows - images in black and grey of what had built up in his soul the day before.

Let old ones go. Dont be a memory-monger! Once you were young──now you are even younger.

Wherever primitive man put up a word, he believed he had made a discovery. How utterly mistaken he really was! He had touched a problem, and while supposing he had solved it, he had created and obstacle to its solution. Now, with every new knowledge we stumble over flint-like and petrified words and, in so doing, break a leg sooner than a word.

Underneath the reality in which we live and have our being, another altogether different reality lies concealed.

The one conclusive argument that has at all times discouraged people from drinking a poison is not that it kills but rather that it tastes bad.

The preponderance of pain over pleasure is the cause of our fictitious morality and religion.

What really makes one indignant about suffering isn't the thing itself but the senselessness of it.