The Most Pitiful Among Men Is He

All Can Hear, But Only The Sensitive Can Understand.

The Envier Praises Me Unknowingly.

Wisdom Stands At The Turn In The Road And Calls Upon Us Publicly, But We Consider It False And Despise Its Adherents.

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

I Wash My Hands Of Those Who Imagine Chattering To Be Knowledge, Silence To Be Ignorance, And Affection To Be Art.