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In the writings of a recluse one always hears something of the echo of the wilderness, something of the murmuring tones and timid vigilance of solitude; in his strongest words, even in his cry itself, there sounds a new and more dangerous kind of silence, of concealment. He who has sat day and night, from year’s end to year’s end, alone with his soul in familiar discord and discourse, he who has become a cave-bear, or a treasure-seeker, or a treasure-guardian and dragon in his cave⁠—it may be a labyrinth, but can also be a goldmine⁠—his ideas themselves eventually acquire a twilight-colour of their own, and an odour, as much of the depth as of the mould, something uncommunicative and repulsive, which blows chilly upon every passerby. The recluse does not believe that a philosopher⁠—supposing that a philosopher has always in the first place been a recluse⁠—ever expressed his actual and ultimate opinions in books: are not books written precisely to hide what is in us?⁠—indeed, he will doubt whether a philosopher can