Every Reasonable Human Being Should Be A

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.

Is Not Life In Itself A Thing Of Goodness, Irrespective Of Whether The Course It Takes For Us Can Be Called A 'happy' One?

The Observations And Encounters Of A Solitary, Taciturn Man Are Vaguer And At The Same Times More Intense Than Those Of A Sociable Man; His Thoughts Are Deeper, Odder And Never Without A Touch Of Sadness. Images And Perceptions That Could Be Dismissed With A Glance, A Laugh, An Exchange Of Opinions, Occupy Him Unduly, Become More Intense In The Silence, Become Significant, Become An Experience, An Adventure, An Emotion. Solitude Produces Originality, Bold And Astonishing Beauty, Poetry. But Solitude Also Produces Perverseness, The Disproportionate, The Absurd And The Forbidden.

Everything Is Politics.

We Don't Love Qualities, We Love Persons; Sometimes By Reason Of Their Defects As Well As Of Their Qualities.