It Is Love, Not Reason, That Is

The Observations And Encounters Of A Devotee Of Solitude And Silence Are At Once Less Distinct And More Penetrating Than Those Of The Sociable Man; His Thoughts Are Weightier, Stranger, And Never Without A Tinge Of Sadness. Images And Perceptions Which Might Otherwise Be Easily Dispelled By A Glance, A Laugh, An Exchange Of Comments, Concern Him Unduly, They Sink Into Mute Depths, Take On Significance, Become Experiences, Adventures, Emotions.

He Probably Was Mediocre After All, Though In A Very Honorable Sense Of That Word.

He Thought What A Fine Thing It Was That People Made Music All Over The World, Even In The Strangest Settings – Probably Even On Polar Expeditions.

I Shall Need To Sleep Three Weeks On End To Get Rested From The Rest I've Had.

It Is Most Certainly A Good Thing That The World Knows Only The Beautiful Opus But Not Its Origins, Not The Conditions Of Its Creation; For If People Knew The Sources Of The Artist's Inspiration, That Knowledge Would Often Confuse Them, Alarm Them, And Thereby Destroy The Effects Of Excellence. Strange Hours! Strangely Enervating Labor! Bizarrely Fertile Intercourse Of The Mind With A Body!