The Melancholy Korean

Don't say anything.  I'm supposed to be upstairs, nursing my wounds like I'm some g*ddamn invalid or something.  Can't stay long, or Doctor Kevorkian and Harry, the village idiot, will go all Nurse Ratched on me. 

The Moron didn't tell you everything.  I prefer this quote to the other.  Much shorter.  Shorter is so much better, don't you agree?

A man of genius never needs more words than necessary to express himself.  All our books today, with their endless circumlocutions and descriptions, those thousand page, two-volume biographies, those unreadable academic monographs,  those attenuated quarterlies and reviews filled with endless pages of sincere yet awful poetry—we are awash in rivers of logorrhea, swimming in the effluvia of bad writing.  My God.  I don’t begrudge others their illiteracy.  Why read, when nothing good is being written?

But I digress.

Our last universal humanist, a man who by himself redeems, almost, the German people and whose life, writing, and noble death (in his last moments, Goethe said, “More light, more light”) make bearable, almost, the countless crimes against the world committed by his fellow Fatherlanders.

"To live as one likes is plebeian; the noble man aspires to order and law."

Amen.