The Only Friends I Have Are The

We Have To Keep Company With Supposedly Bad Characters If We Are To Survive And Not Succumb To Mental Atrophy. People Of Good Character, So Called, Are The Ones Who End Up Boring Us To Death.

People Keep A Dog And Are Ruled By This Dog, And Even Schopenhauer Was Ruled In The End Not By His Head, But By His Dog. This Fact Is More Depressing Than Any Other.

Everyone, He Went On, Speaks A Language He Does Not Understand, But Which Now And Then Is Understood By Others. That Is Enough To Permit One To Exist And At Least To Be Misunderstood.

Nothing But Disaster Follows From Applause.

Everything Is Ridiculous If One Thinks Of Death