An Artist Is He For Whom The

One Of The Two Is Almost Always A Prevailing Tendency Of Every Author: Either Not To Say Some Things Which Certainly Should Be Said, Or To Say Many Things Which Did Not Need To Be Said. The First Is The Original Sin Of Synthetic Natures, The Latter Of Analytical Natures.

All Thinking Of The Religious Man Is Etymological, A Reduction Of All Concepts To The Original Intuition, To The Characteristic.

I Can No Longer Say My Love And Your Love; They Are Both Alike In Their Perfect Mutuality.

One Of Two Things Is Usually Lacking In The So-called Philosophy Of Art: Either Philosophy Or Art.

There Are Ancient And Modern Poems Which Breathe, In Their Entirety And In Every Detail, The Divine Breath Of Irony. In Such Poemsthere Lives A Real Transcendental Buffoonery. Their Interior Is Permeated By The Mood Which Surveys Everything And Rises Infinitely Above Everything Limited, Even Above The Poet's Own Art, Virtue, And Genius; And Their Exterior Form By The Histrionic Style Of An Ordinary Good Italian Buffo.