Marriage (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the most important journey of discovery a man can undertake: Ulysses saw many cities — but might he not have learned as much staying home with Penelope?

Marriage (n.) keeps ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its door shut like the tradesman's during divine service — because in it divine service is constantly going on.

Marriage (n.) had ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no god in paganism, which had a god for love; in Christianity there is a God for marriage and none for love — for marriage is a higher expression for love.

Marriage (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the only institution confident enough to announce itself as a worry — Ehestand ist Wehestand — while all other beginnings are ingratiating and silent about the difficulties.

Love (n.) teaches ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the enthusiast chasing an ideal through his affairs as little as losing teaches the lottery player.

Love (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not mean exercising criticism, and fidelity is not a detailed critique: married eight years, the Judge does not yet know in the aesthetic sense what his wife looks like.

Love (n.) expected ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to last a lifetime like the pretty phrases laid up in youth betrays a negligent upbringing — who today buys one umbrella for life, or a cloak for eternity?

Love (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its absolute outburst — “I shall die of love” — meant for instant enjoyment like an omelet soufflé; it concerns a whole lifetime yet binds the speaker to nothing, only the hearer to rush to her aid.

Melancholy (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠relates itself abstractly to life thinks it travels for half fare — like Hebel's tailor allowed aboard at half price if he walked alongside and helped pull: it hauls as hard as the crew and pays besides.

Melancholy (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠sport of the melancholic: after wandering through the valley of anxiety fearing he could not make her happy, he never suspected the most natural thing — that she doesn't care for him at all.

Melancholy (n.) merely ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠waits until one is alone: if anybody is present, whoever it may be, I am never quite what I am.

Melancholy (n.) sends ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠me its ideas as messengers from my first love — like the dwarf or the old crone a lover sends in the romances: who could believe it was a love message?

Reflection (n.) lived ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠by entirely is like walking on an artificial leg one cannot take a step without — while hiding from people that it is artificial.

Reflection (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the reflective man's life a vortex — what brings it to a boil is an atom invisible to the eye, a remark about the tea she did not know she had made.

Reflection (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠inexhaustible like Tordenskjold's parade: the same few troops march past the stand, turn into a side street, don another uniform, and march past again as the garrison's incalculable forces.

Reflection (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠me a sample man, not a paradigm, indicating the temperature of every mood and passion — an experiment existence uses to feel its way; a man half as reflective could matter to many, but the wholly reflective matters to none.

Resolution (n.) at ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠third hand — made because the neighbor across the street has also resolved — is no resolution; whether there is poetry at second hand, I do not know.

Resolution (n.) held ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠at its apex is the woodchopper's axe raised above the head, its weight redoubled by the position — an instant one can barely sustain.

Resolution (n.) grows ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠proud and inhuman the more abstract it is, ruling all the arguments of fate invalid; the more concrete, the more it meets providence, yielding humility, meekness, gratitude.

Resolution (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the earned capital required for action: the ideality produced by a purely ideal reflection that has exhausted reality — otherwise it is a night's drive on the wrong road that ends where it began.

Repentance (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠recollection of a fault — which is why the police, by making the criminal recite his story by rote, help him never to repent.

Repentance (n.) seized ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠David the night after he sent orders to kill Uriah, and he sent a swift messenger to stop it — five days of waiting are not even a clause in the System's paragraph, but might turn a man's hair gray.

Repentance (n.) used ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to be recognized by the fact that it acts.

Repentance (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠can employ a whole life for a recantation cannot go forward — a perfectly simple protest against marriage, without visions or dreams.

God (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a round conception of time: "Not yet the moment, wait a little longer." "How long?" "Some threescore years and ten" — since a thousand years are to Him one day, that is precisely 1 hour, 56 minutes and 3 seconds.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the strongest of all because He does not talk to a man from outside, pro and contra; He speaks to the man by means of the man himself — so all the dialectical power in a man's soul God uses against him.

God (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a kindly old uncle to a girl without religious presuppositions, who will do whatever the child wants in return for sweet words.

God (n.) made ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠man in his image, and man repaid him in kind, says Lichtenberg — how a man pictures God depends on what kind of man he is.

Don Juan (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a tally of 1,003 that matters only for being odd and accidental — it shows the list is not closed; Don Juan is in a hurry.

Don Juan (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a conqueror, not a discoverer: veni, vidi, vici — Papageno selects, Don Juan enjoys, Leporello inspects.

Don Juan (n.) desires ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠precisely the common, not the uncommon — what Zerlina has in common with hundreds of others: being young, pretty and a woman.

Don Juan (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠flesh incarnate — the inspiration of the flesh by the spirit of the flesh.

Recollection (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠an art is not bringing back the past by enchantment but removing by enchantment the object nearest you — for the sake of recollecting it.

Recollection (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠drawing a check upon eternity — and eternity is humane enough to honor every draft.

Recollection (n.) must ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be not only exact but happy: sealed like wine, it must conserve the bouquet of the experience.

Recollection (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its possessor richer than the owner of the whole world — he too, like the woman with child, is in an interesting situation.

A Woman (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a dream — and yet the highest reality.

A Woman (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠lovely regarded aesthetically; “go further,” regard her ethically, and the thing becomes a jest.

A Woman (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠exalt a man to infinity through a negative relationship; a positive one reduces him to finiteness in the greatest conceivable degree.

A Woman (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a collective term: to say one woman means many women — an infinity of finitudes, whose idea is only a workshop of possibilities.