Curiously Enough, The Sublime Is Generally Achieved

Can Any Man Say With Certainty That He Was Happy At A Particular Moment Of Time Which He Remembers As Being Delightful? Remembering It Certainly Makes Him Happy, Because He Realizes How Happy He Could Have Been, But At The Actual Moment When The Alleged Happiness Was Occurring, Did He Really Feel Happy? He Was Like A Man Owning A Piece Of Ground In Which, Unknown To Himself, A Treasure Lay Buried.

The True Wisdom Of The Philosopher Ought To Insist In Enjoying Everything. Yet We Apply Ourselves To Dissecting And Destroying Everything That Is Good In Itself, That Has Virtue, Albeit The Virtue There Is In Mere Illusions. Nature Gives Us This Life Like A Toy To A Weak Child. We Want To See How It All Works; We Break Everything. There Remains In Our Hands, And Before Our Eyes, Stupid And Opened Too Late, The Sterile Wreckage, Fragments That Will Not Again Make A Whole. The Good Is So Simple.

The Things One Experiences Alone With Oneself Are Very Much Stronger And Purer.

One Should Not Be Too Difficult. An Artist Should Not Treat Himself Like An Enemy.

Commonplace People Have An Answer For Everything And Nothing Ever Surprises Them. They Try To Look As Though They Knew What You Were About To Say Better Than You Did Yourself, And When It Is Their Turn To Speak, They Repeat With Great Assurance Something That They Have Heard Other People Say, As Though It Were Their Own Invention.