Our body is but a social structure composed of many souls.
A thought comes when *it* wishes, and not when *I* wish.
In the sentence "I think,"
I find a whole series of daring assertions that would be
difficult, perhaps impossible, to prove.
For example, that it is *I* who think
that there must necessarily be something that thinks
that thinking is an activity, an operation,
on the part of the being who is thought of as a cause.
Imagine a being like nature
wasteful beyond measure
indifferent beyond measure
without purposes
and consideration
without mercy
and justice
fertile and desolate and uncertain
at the same time
imagine indifference itself
as a power.
In the philosopher, there is nothing whatever that is impersonal
His morality bears decided and decisive witness
to who he is
that is, in what order of rank
the innermost drives of his nature stand in relation to each other.
(For every drive wants to be master)
Gradually, it has become clear to me what
every great philosophy so far has been
the personal confession of its author
and a kind of involuntary
and unconscious memoir.
