Egoists: A Book of Supermen ...

Front Cover
Scribner, 1909 - Dramatists - 372 pages
 

What people are saying - Write a review

We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.

Other editions - View all

Common terms and phrases

Popular passages

Page 104 - Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems and new!
Page 287 - When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Page 287 - Why, so can I, or so can any man ; But will they come, when you do call for them ? Glend.
Page 367 - Liberty is not a means to a higher political end. It is itself the highest political end. It is not for the sake of a good public administration that it is required, but for security in the pursuit of the highest objects of civil society, and of private life.
Page 371 - Is it not the chief disgrace in the world not to be an unit, not to be reckoned one character —- not to yield that peculiar fruit which each man was created to bear, but to be reckoned in the gross, in the hundred, or the thousand, of the party, the section, to which we belong; and our opinion predicted geographically, as the north, or the south?
Page 289 - Hartley is what he always was, a strange, strange boy, 'exquisitely wild,' an utter visionary, like the moon among thin clouds he moves in a circle of light of his own making. He alone is a light of his own.
Page 199 - When you have no taste you have no discretion, which is the conscience of taste, and when you have no discretion you perpetrate books like Rome...
Page 71 - I love Wagner; but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by his tail outside of a window, and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws. There is an odd grating on the glass which I find at the same time strange, irritating, and singularly harmonious.
Page 313 - Hers is the head upon which all the ends of the world are come, and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions.
Page 15 - My country is where there are most people like me — Cosmopolis ! The only excuse for God is that he does not exist ! Verse was invented to aid the memory ! A volume of maxims, witty and immoral, might be gathered from the writings of Stendhal that would equal Rivarol and Rochefoucauld. "I require three or four cubic feet of new ideas per day, as a steamboat requires coal,

Bibliographic information