Only Love, And Not Reason, Yields Kind

It Is Most Certainly A Good Thing That The World Knows Only The Beautiful Opus But Not Its Origins, Not The Conditions Of Its Creation; For If People Knew The Sources Of The Artist's Inspiration, That Knowledge Would Often Confuse Them, Alarm Them, And Thereby Destroy The Effects Of Excellence. Strange Hours! Strangely Enervating Labor! Bizarrely Fertile Intercourse Of The Mind With A Body!

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

Time Has No Divisions To Mark Its Passage, There Is Never A Thunder-storm Or Blare Of Trumpets To Announce The Beginning Of A New Month Or Year. Even When A New Century Begins It Is Only We Mortals Who Ring Bells And Fire Off Pistols.

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

Forbearance In The Face Of Fate, Beauty Constant Under Torture, Are Not Merely Passive. They Are A Positive Achievement, An Explicit Triumph.