He Who Loves The More Is The

I Stand Between Two Worlds. I Am At Home In Neither, And I Suffer In Consequence. You Artists Call Me A Bourgeois, And The Bourgeois Try To Arrest Me...i Don't Know Which Makes Me Feel Worse.

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.

Time Cools, Time Clarifies; No Mood Can Be Maintained Quite Unaltered Through The Course Of Hours.

One Has The Idea Of A Stupid Man As Perfectly Healthy And Ordinary, And Of Illness As Making One Refined And Clever And Unusual.

One Must Die To Life In Order To Be Utterly A Creator.