Everybody was glad to see Martin. They did not read his books. They liked him for himself. He felt like a prince returned from exile. Also, he had money in his pockets.
Martin shook his head, but gave no explanations. How could he explain? There were not words enough in the English language, nor in any language, to make his attitude and conduct intelligible to them. They could just offer him: get a job. That was their first word and their last. Get a job! Go to work! Poor, stupid slaves, he thought, while his sister talked
But Brissenden was always an enigma. With the face of an ascetic, he was unafraid to die, bitter and cynical; and yet, dying, he loved life, to the last atom of it. Who or what he was, Martin never learned. He was a man without a past, whose future was the grave and whose present was a bitter fever of living.
Nietzsche was right. I won’t take the time to tell you who Nietzsche was, but he was right. The world belongs to the strong – to the strong who are noble. The world belongs to the true noblemen, to the noncompromisers