Read from a distant star, the majuscule script of our earthly existence would perhaps lead to the conclusion that the earth was the distinctively ascetic planet, a nook of disgruntled, arrogant creatures filled with a profound disgust with themselves, at the earth, at all life, who inflict as much pain on themselves as they possibly can out of pleasure in inflicting pain which is probably their only pleasure.

One has to test oneself to see that one is destined for independence and command — and do it at the right time. One should not dodge one’s tests, though they may be the most dangerous game one could play and are tests that are taken in the end before no witness or judge but ourselves. Not to remain stuck to a person — not even the most loved — every person is a prison, also a nook.

Not to remain stuck to a fatherland — not even if it suffers most and needs help most — it is less difficult to sever one’s heart from a victorious fatherland. Not to remain stuck to some pity — not even for higher men into whose rare torture and helplessness some accident allowed us to look.

Not to remain stuck to a science — even if it should lure us with the most precious finds that seem to have been saved up precisely for us. Not to remain stuck to one’s own detachment, to that voluptuous remoteness and strangeness of the bird who flees ever higher to see ever more below him — the danger of the flier.

Not to remain stuck to our own virtues and become as a whole the victim of some detail in us, such as our hospitality, which is the danger of dangers for superior and rich souls who spend themselves lavishly, almost indifferently, and exaggerate the virtue of generosity into a vice.

One must know how to conserve oneself: the hardest test of independence.

I have done that', says my memory. I cannot have done that — says my pride and remains unshakeable. Finally — memory yields.