Frankly, I'd rather ride with the Fückers.
Or so it's characterized by Herring-Hawker's Cry:
(27 August 1937) The unpleasant thing about an autobiography is taking oneself so seriously, and yet everyone feels the urge to do so. Even this cursing of just about all and sundry is both ugly and indispensable. But if I describe my life as being exemplary, as a life in this age that I want to hand down to later ages, this can be toned down with irony and the objections raised will then fall away. And this epoch deserves to be handed down just as it is (not in the distanced mode of MwQ [Man without Qualities]), but seen in close-up, as a private life. It can have the charm of intimate historical finds. My probing conscience, contemplation of my shortcomings and the like will also find their place here as a reproduction of the times.
"Gratitude is a sickness suffered by dogs.”
From a new series of dictator-themed greeting cards, just in time for the holidays!
"A man who lies to himself is often the first to take offense."
— Father Zosima, in The Brothers Karamazov (Volokhonsky & Pevear translation)
From the Treasury of the Eye of the True Dharma, Book 57 (pdf), a Soto Zen text:
My former master, the Old Buddha of Tiantong, on one occasion when old acquaintances among the elders from all quarters assembled and requested a lecture, ascended the hall and said,
The great way has no gate,
It springs forth from the crown in all quarters;
Empty space ends the road,
It comes into the nostril of Qingliang.
Meeting like this,
Seeds of Gautama’s traitors,
Embryos of Linji’s misfortune.
The great house topples over, dancing in the spring wind;
Startled, the falling apricot blossoms fly in crimson chaos.