Humanity Is A Comic Role.

Accident Is Simply Unforeseen Order.

Everything At A Distance Turns Into Poetry; Distant Mountains, Distant People, Distant Events; All Become Romantic.

Man Has His Being In Truth--if He Sacrifices Truth He Sacrifices Himself. Whoever Betrays Truth Betrays Himself. It Is Not A Question Of Lying--but Of Acting Against One's Conviction.

The Normal Present Connects The Past And The Future Through Limitation. Contiguity Results, Crystallization By Means Of Solidification. There Also Exists, However, A Spiritual Present That Identifies Past And Future Through Dissolution, And This Mixture Is The Element, The Atmosphere Of The Poet.

The Art Of Writing Books Is Not Yet Invented. But It Is At The Point Of Being Invented. Fragments Of This Nature Are Literary Seeds. There May Be Many An Infertile Grain Among Them: Nevertheless, If Only Some Come Up!