Somewhere with Confucius, the Stoics, Cervantes, Kleist, Nietzsche and myself is right for me philosophy.
The point of philosophy, see Confucius years of his life, see Kleist's early death by his own hand, see Nietzsche's disease, Cervantes' cruel fate, see the largely faded Stoa, not whether she was just very viable.
Who really loves wisdom, does not ask first and foremost afterward, where it may cause this love.
Our responsibility is to express far as we, the living, not only for ourselves but for all people.
If you do not want to see, want not even start with the philosophy instead a decent job learning.
We are not as Jesus said ostensibly why he as delivered, not one of these, not out of this world.
We are precisely of this world.
He who is not of this world, we can not even be stolen.
Yes, in dark hours we throw our sense once in the other worlds.
But there is not our home, nor that our costumes sought there.
We are not the misanthrope, to which our adversaries want to stamp us. The not only for hate, that they do not understand our love.
But they hate us; but they hate us mainly because we shirk them, they only have a very limited power over us.
This makes them furious.
Yes, and we laugh them to scorn not rare, which on the one hand our duty, we also sometimes like to do.
You count the money, we develop the possibilities of the human spirit.
Strangely, however, where we always seem to be subject but that the seemingly stupid mankind us build monuments, while hardly remembers the faded money counter.
We know that every good thought, correctly pronounced, is worth more than millions of dollars.
Probably, it may often not look like it's our bottom line better than them.
They have money, honor, women, Wassonstnoch, more than genung, mock us on each of their receptions.
What is it against a real, always be tested self?
Thin smoke in the autumn winds.
Yes, sometimes we may be weak, at least they envy the good wine.
But we have not long for such an inopportune moment useless thoughts.
It also does not mean anything, that some of them are old as the hills, while many of us die young.
Our very dear comrades', Heinrich von Kleist, had seen her before his fünfundreißigsten Birthdays than those ever received.
You can accumulate debt on debt so short glory and honor and semi-Counterfeit harvest, womanizing, cheap to do so.
From that world, we are not.
We know all of you, from us you know nothing.
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Tags: Philosophy