Lovers Of Painting And Lovers Of Music

The Less Manifest The Work, The Stronger: As Though A Secret Law Demanded It Always Be Hidden In What It Shows, Thus Showing What Must Remain Hidden, Only Showing It, In The End, By Dissimulation.

A Writer Never Reads His Work. For Him, It Is The Unreadable, A Secret, And He Cannot Remain Face To Face With It. A Secret, Because He Is Separated From It.

But My Silence Is Real. If I Hid It From You, You Would Find It Again A Little Farther On.

Literature Professes To Be Important While At The Same Time Considering Itself An Object Of Doubt. It Confirms Itself As It Disparages Itself. It Seeks Itself: This Is More Than It Has A Right To Do, Because Literature May Be One Of Those Things Which Deserve To Be Found But Not To Be Sought.

As Reason Returned To Me, Memory Came With It, And I Saw That Even On The Worst Days, When I Thought I Was Utterly And Completely Miserable, I Was Nevertheless, And Nearly All The Time, Extremely Happy. That Gave Me Something To Think About. The Discovery Was Not A Pleasant One. It Seemed To Me That I Was Losing A Great Deal. I Asked Myself, Wasn't I Sad, Hadn't I Felt My Life Breaking Up? Yes, That Had Been True; But Each Minute, When I Stayed Without Moving In A Corner Of The Room, The Cool Of The Night And The Stability Of The Ground Made Me Breathe And Rest On Gladness.