Not Philosophy, After All, Not Humanity, Just

There Is Much Virtue In A Window. It Is To A Human Being As A Frame Is To A Painting, As A Proscenium To A Play, As 'form' To Literature. It Strongly Defines Its Content.

Of All The Objects Of Hatred, A Woman Once Loved Is The Most Hateful.

The Lower One's Vitality, The More Sensitive One Is To Great Art.

But To Die Of Laughter--this, Too, Seems To Me A Great Euthanasia.

The Socratic Manner Is Not A Game At Which Two Can Play.