What Matters Is Real Love For Things

There Is Nothing I Hate More Than Sentimentality.

It Is, Of Course, A Luxury To Create Art And, On Top Of This, To Insist On Expressing One's Own Artistic Opinion. Nothing Is More Luxurious Than This. It Is A Game And A Good Game, At Least For Me; One Of The Few Games Which Make Life, Difficult And Depressing As It Is Sometimes, A Little More Interesting.

It Was So Wonderful Outside That Even The Wild Senselessness Of This Enormous Death, Whose Music I Hear Again And Again, Could Not Disturb Me From My Great Enjoyment!

We Will Enjoy Ourselves With The Forms That Are Given Us: A Human Face, A Hand, The Breast Of A Woman Or The Body Of A Man, A Glad Or Sorrowful Expression, The Infinite Seas, The Wild Rocks, The Melancholy Language Of The Black Trees In The Snow, The Wild Strength Of Spring Flowers And The Heavy Lethargy Of A Hot Summer Day When Pan, Our Old Friend, Sleeps And The Ghosts Of Midday Whisper. This Alone Is Enough To Make Us Forget The Grief Of The World, Or To Give It Form.

One Of My Problems Is To Find The Ego, Which Has Only One Form And Is Immortal - To Find It In Animals And Men, In The Heaven And In The Hell Which Together Form The World In Which We Live.