It Is Reality That Awakens Possibilities, And

You Proclaim That One Should Die For The Highest Virtues, Because You Take It For Granted That Nobody's Been Living For Them, Not Even For A Single Hour.

The Thought Is Not Something That Observes An Inner Event, But, Rather It Is This Inner Event Itself. We Do Not Reflect On Something, But, Rather, Something Thinks Itself In Us.

What Is Perceptible To One’s Mistrust Is The Cut-and-dried Way That Life Is Divided Up And The Ready-made Form It Assumes, The Ever-recurring Sameness Of It, The Pre-formations Passed Down By Generation After Generation, The Ready-made Language Not Only Of The Tongue But Also Of The Sensations And The Feelings.

Is Not Art A Tool We Employ To Peel The Kitsch Off Life? Layer By Layer Art Strips Life Bare. The More Abstract It Gets, The More Transparent The Air Is. Can It Be That The Farther It Is Removed From Life, The Clearer Art Becomes?

It Was The Tenderness Mingled With Melancholy Which We Bring To A Time That Belongs Irrevocably To The Past, When A Pale, Delicate Shadow Rises From It Bearing The Lilies Of The Dead, And In It We Find A Forgotten Likeness To Ourselves. And That Faint, Wistful Shadow, That Pale Scent, Seemed To Vanish Away Into A Wide, Full, Warm Stream - The Life That Now Lay Open Before Him.