I Know My Fate. One Day My

Against Boredom Even Gods Struggle In Vain.

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?

Once And For All, There Are Many Things I Choose Not To Know.--wisdom Sets Limits Even To Knowledge.

Where Neither Love Nor Hatred Is In The Game, A Woman's Game Is Mediocre.

As Refined Fare Serves A Hungry Man As Well As And No Better Than Coarser Food, The More Pretentious Artist Will Not Dream Of Inviting The Hungry Man To His Meal.