Prose on the currency of Schopenhauer
Democracy instills into each man the belief that he should never appeal to tyranny, though he in fact wishes he were a tyrant. His beliefs are orthodox, or they define what is orthodox; his qualifications rail against or align with establishment; his theories are sham and internally consistent, though the organism of thought is small and parasitic; his biology remains antiquated for the scope of his ambition. He peers into being and discovers he, too, is a cellular puzzle, an idea of the species, deaf to almost all of reality, and an inventor of philosophies. He seeks kinship with himself alone, fronts the appearance of community, and yet is a length of nerves that considers itself profound when his night is long and his happiness short.