Your writer, your scientist, your chief official, all have lost the power to revive the early illusion concerning fame and high place. Their beauty and delight is like the mirage in the heavens, only plain to the eye outside; within is nothing.

And then he sank back and tried, as usual, not to think. He must succeed. That's what the world was made for. That's what he was made for. That was what he would have to do.

I sacrifice to the God of Beauty — the impulse to beauty in nature. Here are flowers. Here is wine spilled on the floor. I will burn incense & myrhh. I will kneel & strike my breast & touch the dust with my forehead. I will I will! Only do not forsake me, Oh God of beauty.

Life is made for the strong. There is no mercy in it for the weak– none...Such is the tragedy of desire.

The strong man wants to be allowed to DO; the little man wants to stop him.

Nothing is proved, all is permitted.

If I were personally to define religion, I would say that it is a bandage that man has invented to protect a soul made bloody by circustance.