Hatred Is A Heavy Burden. It Sinks

My Counsel Is, To Force Nothing, And Rather To Trifle And Sleep Away All Unproductive Days And Hours, Than On Such Days To Compose Something That Will Afterwards Give No Pleasure.

All Of Us, Just Because We Are Able To Talk, Also Believe We Are Able To Talk About Language.

Even The Lowliest, Provided He Is Whole, Can Be Happy, And In His Own . Way, Perfect.

Is It Not Enough That We Cannot Make One Another Happy, Must We Also Rob One Another Of The Pleasures That Any Heart May Permit Itself Now And Then? And Name Me A Person Who In A Bad Mood Will Be Decent Enough To Hide It, To Bear It Alone, Without Destroying The Joy Around Him. Is It Not Rather An Inner Dissatisfaction With Our Own Unworthiness, A Dislike Of Ourselves That Is Always Associated With Envy Aggravated By Foolish Conceit? We See People Happy And Not Made Happy By Us, And That Is Unbearable.

The Mediator Of The Inexpressible Is The Work Of Art.