Of All Lies, Art Is The Least

As You Get Older, The Heart Shed Its Leaves Like A Tree. You Cannot Hold Out Against Certain Winds. Each Day Tears Away A Few More Leaves; And Then There Are The Storms That Break Off Several Branches At One Go. And While Nature’s Greenery Grows Back Again In The Spring, That Of The Heart Never Grows Back.

One Mustn't Always Believe That Feeling Is Everything. In The Arts, It Is Nothing Without Form.

And Indeed, What Is Better Than To Sit By One's Fireside In The Evening With A Book, While The Wind Beats Against The Window And The Lamp Is Buring?

The One Way Of Tolerating Existence Is To Lose Oneself In Literature As In A Perpetual Orgy.

By Working One Can Bend Fortune. She Is Fond Of Crafty Men.