You Are Quite Unnecessary, Young Man!

And War Is Wonderful, Isn't It? For It's War, Isn't It, That The Americans Have Been Preparing For And Are Preparing For This Way Step By Step. In Order To Defend This Senseless Manufacture From All Competition That Could Not Fail To Arise On All Sides.

We Must Wash Literature Off Ourselves. We Want To Be Men Above All, To Be Human.

Tragedy On The Stage Is No Longer Enough For Me, I Shall Bring It Into My Own Life.

I Destroy Because For Me Everything That Proceeds From Reason Is Untrustworthy. I Believe Only In The Evidence Of What Stirs My Marrow, Not In The Evidence Of What Addresses Itself To My Reason. I Have Found Levels In The Realm Of The Nerve. I Now Feel Capable Of Evaluating The Evidence. There Is For Me An Evidence In The Realm Of Pure Flesh Which Has Nothing To Do With The Evidence Of Reason. The Eternal Conflict Between Reason And The Heart Is Decided In My Very Flesh, But In My Flesh Irrigated By Nerves.

It Is Not A Certain Conformity Of Manners That The Painting Of Van Gogh Attacks, But Rather The Conformity Of Institutions Themselves. And Even External Nature, With Her Climates, Her Tides, And Her Equinoctial Storms, Cannot, After Van Gogh's Stay Upon Earth, Maintain The Same Gravitation.