He Who Loves The More Is The

(t)here Was A Story They Used To Tell At Home About A Girl Whose Punishment Was That Every Time She Opened Her Mouth, Snakes And Toads Came Out, Snakes And Toads With Every Word. The Book Didn't Say What She Did About It, But I've Always Assumed She Probably Ended Up Keeping Her Mouth Shut.

A Man Lives Not Only His Personal Life, As An Individual, But Also, Consciously Or Unconsciously, The Life Of His Epoch And His Contemporaries.

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.

There Is Only One Real Misfortune: To Forfeit One's Own Good Opinion Of Oneself. Lose Your Complacency, Once Betray Your Own Self-contempt And The World Will Unhesitatingly Endorse It.

In Books We Never Find Anything But Ourselves. Strangely Enough, That Always Gives Us Great Pleasure, And We Say The Author Is A Genius.