Only Love, And Not Reason, Yields Kind

He Took In The Squeaky Music, The Vulgar And Pining Melodies, Because Passion Immobilizes Good Taste And Seriously Considers What Soberly Would Be Thought Of As Funny And To Be Resented.

There Were Profound Reasons For His Attachment To The Sea: He Loved It Because As A Hardworking Artist He Needed Rest, Needed To Escape From The Demanding Complexity Of Phenomena And Lie Hidden On The Bosom Of The Simple And Tremendous; Because Of A Forbidden Longing Deep Within Him That Ran Quite Contrary To His Life's Task And Was For That Very Reason Seductive, A Longing For The Unarticulated And Immeasurable, For Eternity, For Nothingness. To Rest In The Arms Of Perfection Is The Desire Of Any Man Intent Upon Creating Excellence; And Is Not Nothingness A Form Of Perfection?

For The Sake Of Goodness And Love, Man Shall Let Death Have No Sovereignty Over His Thoughts.

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.

For The Myth Is The Foundation Of Life; It Is The Timeless Schema, The Pious Formula Into Which Life Flows When It Reproduces Its Traits Out Of The Unconscious.