We come to mistake the crumbs of mercy for the feast of love.
Evil has ways of surprising one. Suddenly it turns round and says: You have misunderstood me, and perhaps it really is so. Evil transforms itself into your own lips, lets itself be gnawed at by your teeth, and with these new lips -- no former ones fitted smoothly to your gums -- to your own amazement you utter the words of goodness.
Don Quixote's misfortune is not his imagination, but Sancho Panza.
What am I doing in this eternal winter?
That's how it will be, except that in reality, both today and later, one will stand there with a palpable body and a real head, a real forehead, that is, for smiting on with one's hand.
Marrying, founding a family, accepting all the children that come, supporting them in this insecure world, and perhaps even guiding them a little, is, I am convinced, the utmost a human being can succeed in doing at all.