Beauty Is That Which Is Simultaneously Attractive

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.

I Have Expressed Some Ideas That Point To The Center; I Have Saluted The Dawn In My Way, From My Point Of View. He Who Knows The Way Should Do The Same, In His Way, And From His Point Of View.

Eternal Life And The Invisible World Are Only To Be Sought In God. Only Within Him Do All Spirits Dwell. He Is An Abyss Of Individuality, The Only Infinite Plenitude.

Even A Friendly Conversation Which Cannot Be At Any Given Moment Be Broken Off Voluntarily With Complete Arbitrariness Has Something Illiberal About It. An Artist, However, Who Is Able And Wants To Express Himself Completely, Who Keeps Nothing To Himself And Would Wish To Say Everything He Knows, Is Very Much To Be Pitied.

There Is No Self-knowledge But An Historical One. No One Knows What He Himself Is Who Does Not Know His Fellow Men, Especially The Most Prominent One Of The Community, The Master's Master, The Genius Of The Age.