A life lived intensely–what is this? Intensity of the kind we seek: never to be the heat of some internal passion, the upsurge of anger, the adamantine fist of stubbornness.
Intensity, more heat than light, flowing from the presence of the Good. Certainly my powers enhanced, yet certainly too the enhancement of my powers is owing to the propinquity of the Good. Approaching it? Yes, I can feel it. Drawing near? Yes.
Intensity is not explosiveness either for, as Nietzsche makes plain in The Will to Power, someone with strength may be able to wait, may hold off reacting until it is time and not, during that time, feel slack or weak, cowed.
I want my intensity, expressed in power or held in calm reserve, to become grace, the epitome of harmony.
Rarely does grace abound. Fever does, ferocity does, lion force does–but graceful power?
How come beauty is so often described as powerless, as limp? And how come power is so frequently felt as maniacal, teeth gnashing, crude? All around me I see the weak ones, doe-like with wasted, lifeless beauty, and there too the captains of industry, so bold and flashy, so forward, so assured in their movements, but brutish and clumsy. What of those who transcend them?
Where, I ask, is the harmony of the greatest power–such speed, such restfulness? Where the boundlessness of glory? Where the greatness of human excellence merging gracefully, gently, because in one movement and without thought or hesitation or anything else, with the Good?