The People We Have Employed In An

I Notice That Autumn Is More The Season Of The Soul Than Of Nature.

What Then Is Truth? A Movable Host Of Metaphors, Metonymies, And Anthropomorphisms: In Short, A Sum Of Human Relations Which Have Been Poetically And Rhetorically Intensified, Transferred, And Embellished, And Which, After Long Usage, Seem To A People To Be Fixed, Canonical, And Binding. Truths Are Illusions Which We Have Forgotten Are Illusions — They Are Metaphors That Have Become Worn Out And Have Been Drained Of Sensuous Force.

On The Tree, Future, We Build Our Nest; And In Our Solitude Eagles Shall Bring Us Nourishment In Their Beaks!

A Refined Soul Is Distressed To Know That Someone Owes It Thanks; A Crude Soul, To Know That It Owes Someone Thanks.

Everything Good Is Instinct--and, As A Result, Easy, Necessary, Free.