For To Be Poised Against Fatality, To

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.

Solitude Produces Originality, Bold And Astonishing Beauty, Poetry. But Solitude Also Produces Perverseness, The Disproportianate, The Absurd And The Forbidden.

Nothing Is Stranger Or More Ticklish Than A Relationship Between People Who Know Each Other Only By Sight, Who Meet And Observe Each Other Daily - No Hourly - And Are Nevertheless Compelled To Keep Up The Pose Of An Indifferent Stranger, Neither Greeting Nor Addressing Each Other, Whether Out Of Etiquette Or Their Own Whim.

Technology And Comfort - Having Those, People Speak Of Culture, But Do Not Have It.

It Is Remarkable How A Man Cannot Summarize His Thoughts In Even The Most General Sort Of Way Without Betraying Himself Completely, Without Putting His Whole Self Into It, Quite Unawares, Presenting As If In Allegory The Basic Themes And Problems Of His Life.