Art Depends Upon The Inexactitude Of Sight.

I Am A Forest, And A Night Of Dark Trees: But He Who Is Not Afraid Of My Darkness, Will Find Banks Full Of Roses Under My Cypresses.

How Lovely It Is That There Are Words And Sounds. Are Not Words And Sounds Rainbows And Illusive Bridges Between Things Which Are Eternally Apart?

If A Man Has Character, He Has Also His Typical Experience, Which Always Recurs.

The Beast In Us Must Be[78] Wheedled: Ethic Is Necessary, That We May Not Be Torn To Pieces.

And If You Are Not A Bird, Then Beware Of Coming To Rest Above An Abyss.