A Harmful Truth Is Better Than A

He Thought What A Fine Thing It Was That People Made Music All Over The World, Even In The Strangest Settings – Probably Even On Polar Expeditions.

A Man’s Dying Is More The Survivors’ Affair Than His Own.

Everything Is Politics.

Even In A Personal Sense, After All, Art Is An Intensified Life. By Art One Is More Deeply Satisfied And More Rapidly Used Up. It Engraves On The Countenance Of Its Servant The Traces Of Imaginary And Intellectual Adventures, And Even If He Has Outwardly Existed In Cloistral Tranquility, It Leads In The Long Term To Overfastidiousness, Over-refinement, Nervous Fatigue And Overstimulation, Such As Can Seldom Result From A Life Of The Most Extravagant Passions And Pleasures.

Time Has No Divisions To Mark Its Passage, There Is Never A Thunder-storm Or Blare Of Trumpets To Announce The Beginning Of A New Month Or Year. Even When A New Century Begins It Is Only We Mortals Who Ring Bells And Fire Off Pistols.