There Is No Greater Joy Than That

The Prestige Of The Nobel Prize Is Due To Many Causes, But In Particular To Its Twofold Idealistic And International Character: Idealistic In That It Has Been Designed For Works Of Lofty Inspiration; International In That It Is Awarded After The Production Of Different Countries Has Been Minutely Studied And The Intellectual Balance Sheet Of The Whole World Has Been Drawn Up. Free From All Other Considerations And Ignoring Any But Intellectual Values, The Judges Have Deliberately Taken Their Place In What The Philosophers Have Called A Community Of The Mind.

I Cannot Escape The Objection That There Is No State Of Mind, However Simple, That Does Not Change Every Moment

Art Has No Other Object Than To Set Aside The Symbols Of Practical Utility, The Generalities That Are Conventionally And Socially Accepted, Everything In Fact Which Masks Reality From Us, In Order To Set Us Face To Face With Reality Itself.

There Are Manifold Tones Of Mental Life, Or, In Other Words, Our Psychic Life May Be Lived At Different Heights, Now Nearer To Action, Now Further Removed From It, According To The Degree Of Our Attention To Life.

Laughter Appears To Stand In Need Of An Echo, Listen To It Carefully: It Is Not An Articulate, Clear, Well-defined Sound; It Is Something Which Would Fain Be Prolonged By Reverberating From One To Another, Something Beginning With A Crash, To Continue In Successive Rumblings, Like Thunder In A Mountain.