Isn't It Grand, Isn't It Good, That

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.

I Shall Need To Sleep Three Weeks On End To Get Rested From The Rest I've Had.

The Accouterments Of Life Were So Rich And Varied, So Elaborated, That Almost No Place At All Was Left For Life Itself. Each And Every Accessory Was So Costly And Beautiful That It Had An Existence Above And Beyond The Purpose It Was Meant To Serve – Confusing The Observer And Absorbing Attention.

Art Is The Funnel, As It Were, Through Which Spirit Is Poured Into Life.

For The Myth Is The Foundation Of Life; It Is The Timeless Schema, The Pious Formula Into Which Life Flows When It Reproduces Its Traits Out Of The Unconscious.