'How can one still have ideals when there are so many blind, deaf, and mad people in the world? How can I remorsely enjoy the light another cannot see or the sound another cannot hear? I feel like a thief of light. Have we not stolen light from the blind and sound from the deaf? Isn't our very lucidity responsible for the madman's darkness? When I think about such things, I lose all courage and will, thoughts seem useless, and compassion, vain. For I do not feel mediocre enough to feel compassion for anyone. Compassion is a sign of superficiality: broken destinies and unrelenting misery either make you scream or turn you to stone. Pity is not only inefficient; it is also insulting. And besides, how can you pity another when you yourself suffer ignominiously? Compassion is as common as it is because it does not bind you to anything! 'Nobody in this world has yet died from another's suffering.' And the one who said that he died for us did not die; he was killed.'
The Vanity Of Compassion