A Talent Can Be Cultivated In Tranquility;

It Would Not Be Worth Your While To Reach The Age Of Seventy If All The Wisdom Of The World Were To Be Foolishness Before God.

After All, Poets Shouldn't Be Their Own Interpreters And Shouldn't Carefully Dissect Their Poems Into Everyday Prose; That Would Mean The End Of Being Poets. Poets Send Their Creations Into The World, It Is Up To The Reader, The Aesthetician, And The Critic To Determine What They Wanted To Say With Their Creations.

Man, Be He Who He May, Experiences A Last Piece Of Good Fortune And A Last Day. [ger., Der Mensch Erfahrt, Er Sei Auch Wer Er Mag, Ein Letztes Gluck Und Einen Letzten Tag.]

A School Of Art Or Of Anything Else Is To Be Looked On As A Single Individual, Who Keeps Talking To Himself For A Hundred Years, And Feels An Extreme Satisfaction With His Own Circle Of Favorite Ideas, Be They Ever So Silly.

The More One Knows, The More One Comprehends, The More One Realizes That Everything Turns In A Circle.