I am grateful I never had to meet Nietzsche the man, and only know the being who wrote and was written — the being who thought his way into my own living soul.

Nietzsche stands in for so many other flawed people who wrote books which brought authors to transhumous life in my own life. I am grateful to have known only their authors.

Who is the “real person” behind the author? Wrong question! Who is the author who enters a crippled actor to make of him an inspired actant? Who is the author who pours their being into their vessel in order to be poured out into so many others?

Whoever says “the author is dead” performs a contradiction, and proves the opposite. Only an author truly lives.

And a golden ball in flight condenses across the alembic: a throwing gift.