The Ear Disapproves But Tolerates Certain Musical

We Are In A Period Of Such Individualism That One No Longer Speaks Of Disciples; One Speaks Of Thieves.

Poetry Is A Religion Without Hope. The Poet Exhausts Himself In Its Service, Knowing That, In The Long Run, A Masterpiece Is Nothing But The Performance Of A Trained Dog On Very Shaky Ground.

Emotion Resulting From A Work Of Art Is Only Of Value When It Is Not Obtained By Sentimental Blackmail.

Since These Mysteries Exceed My Grasp, I Shall Pretend To Have Organized Them.

One Must Not Mistake Majority For Truth.