Whoever Could Properly Characterize Goethe's Meister Would

There Are Ancient And Modern Poems Which Breathe, In Their Entirety And In Every Detail, The Divine Breath Of Irony. In Such Poemsthere Lives A Real Transcendental Buffoonery. Their Interior Is Permeated By The Mood Which Surveys Everything And Rises Infinitely Above Everything Limited, Even Above The Poet's Own Art, Virtue, And Genius; And Their Exterior Form By The Histrionic Style Of An Ordinary Good Italian Buffo.

Whoever Has Not Arrived At The Clear Insight That There Might Be Greatness Entirely Outside His Own Sphere For Which He Has No Understanding, Whoever Does Not Have At Least A Dim Inkling In Which Area Of The Human Spirit This Greatness Might Be Situated: He Is Within His Own Sphere Either Without Genius, Or He Has Not Educated Himself Up To The Point Of The Classical Attitude.

Versatility Of Education Can Be Found In Our Best Poetry, But The Depth Of Mankind Should Be Found In The Philosopher.

That Which Reminds Us Of Nature And Thus Stimulates A Feeling For The Infinite Abundance Of Life Is Beautiful. Nature Is Organic,and Therefore The Highest Beauty Is Forever Vegetative; And The Same Is True For Morality And Love.

A Critic Is A Reader Who Ruminates. Thus, He Should Have More Than One Stomach.