Intelligence (n.) is a homesickness: its very dispersion among many ideas is a nostalgia for the One it has fallen from.
Intelligence (n.) works miracles that, unlike thaumaturgy, do not wound the dignity of the responsible being or ruin the conditions for effort.
Intelligence (n.) freed from all allegiance to being becomes pyrotechnics of meaning — a difficult game, absolute freedom with no responsibility following from it.
Intelligence (n.) is the cock's: to sense the dawn in the midst of night, moments before it shines — knowing the meaning of History before the event, not divining it afterwards.
Intelligence (n.) is given us in order to suffer from what is merely possible, and conscience to suffer from what should be; sentiment alone would make us suffer only from what is.