Action (n.) is itself the good, and happiness is found directly in it — this is all virtue can learn from experience.
Action (n.) in the epic is the violation of the peaceful earth — the trench filled with blood that summons the thirsting dead back to life.
Action (n.) leaves what I let go into the external world still mine — what I have done and made bears the trace of my spirit.
Action (n.) exposes me to misfortune, which also has a right to me: "a stone flung from the hand is the devil's."
Action (n.) leaves the matter in hand [die Sache selbst] enduring while every individual result — circumstances, means, success — vanishes around it.
Action (n.) in the actual world is already submission to its laws: whoever acts has recognized the right of objectivity.
Action (n.) quietly refutes the moralist: by acting he makes present the very harmony of duty and world he swore could only be a beyond.
Action (n.) in drama is at the mercy of collisions that, against the will and intention of the agents, bring out the real inner essence of their aims and characters.
Action (n.) that changes the world necessarily incurs guilt, because it makes our particularity real in defiance of the universal.
Action (n.) is the first sundering of the simple unity of the concept and the return out of that division; only through action is Spirit really there.
Action (n.) in history produces an effect altogether different from what its agents intend: their interest is gratified, and a further purpose they never willed is accomplished.
Action (n.) is the inversion of the known into its opposite: it turns a rightness based on one's character into the rightness of the very power it offended, which rises up as the Furies.
Action (n.) alters nothing and opposes nothing: it is the pure transition from not being seen to being seen — the daylight in which consciousness displays what it already is.