Building Worlds Is Not Enough For The

The Artist Belongs To His Work, Not The Work To The Artist.

Knowledge Is Only One Half. Faith Is The Other.

The Normal Present Connects The Past And The Future Through Limitation. Contiguity Results, Crystallization By Means Of Solidification. There Also Exists, However, A Spiritual Present That Identifies Past And Future Through Dissolution, And This Mixture Is The Element, The Atmosphere Of The Poet.

Sometimes With The Most Intense Pain A Paralysis Of Sensibility Occurs. The Soul Disintegrates--hence The Deadly Frost--the Free Power Of The Mind--the Shattering, Ceaseless Wit Of This Kind Of Despair. There Is No Inclination For Anything Any More--the Person Is Alone, Like A Baleful Power--as He Has No Connection With The Rest Of The World He Consumes Himself Gradually--and In Accordance With His Own Principle He Is--misanthropic And Misotheos.

Philosophy Is Properly Home-sickness; The Wish To Be Everywhere At Home.