Photography Is A Witness Against The Mistaken

I Am No Longer A Divine Biped. I Am No Longer The Freest German After Goethe, As Ruge Named Me In Healthier Days. I Am No Longer The Great Hero No. 2, Who Was Compared With The Grape-crowned Dionysius, Whilst My Colleague No. 1 Enjoyed The Title Of A Grand Ducal Weimarian Jupiter. I Am No Longer A Joyous, Somewhat Corpulent Hellenist, Laughing Cheerfully Down Upon The Melancholy Nazarenes. I Am Now A Poor Fatally-ill Jew, An Emaciated Picture Of Woe, An Unhappy Man.

The Negro King Desired To Be Portrayed As White. But Do Not Laugh At The Poor African; For Every Man Is But Another Negro King, And Would Like To Appear In A Color Different From That With Which Fate Has Bedaubed Him.

Wild, Dark Times Are Rumbling Toward Us, And The Prophet Who Wishes To Write A New Apocalypse Will Have To Invent Entirely New Beasts, And Beasts So Terrible That The Ancient Animal Symbols Of St. John Will Seem Like Cooing Doves And Cupids In Comparison.

Nothing Is Sillier Than This Charge Of Plagiarism. There Is No Sixth Commandment In Art. The Poet Dare Help Himself Wherever He Lists, Wherever He Finds Material Suited To His Work. He May Even Appropriate Entire Columns With Their Carved Capitals, If The Temple He Thus Supports Be A Beautiful One. Goethe Understood This Very Well, And So Did Shakespeare Before Him.

A Blaspheming Frenchman Is A Spectacle More Pleasing To The Lord Than A Praying Englishman.