When Ideas Become Gods, Consciousness Of Harmony

In England, Wit Is At Least A Profession, If Not An Art. Everything Becomes Professional There, And Even The Rogues Of That Islandare Pedants. So Are The "wits" There Too. They Introduce Into Reality Absolute Freedom Whose Reflection Lends A Romantic And Piquant Air To Wit, And Thus They Live Wittily; Hence Their Talent For Madness. They Die For Their Principles.

There Is No Self-knowledge But An Historical One. No One Knows What He Himself Is Who Does Not Know His Fellow Men, Especially The Most Prominent One Of The Community, The Master's Master, The Genius Of The Age.

If One Writes Or Reads Novels From The Point Of View Of Psychology, It Is Very Inconsistent And Petty To Want To Shy Away From Even The Slowest And Most Detailed Analysis Of The Most Unnatural Lusts, Gruesome Tortures, Shocking Infamy, And Disgusting Sensual Or Spiritual Impotence.

Honor Is The Mysticism Of Legality

Poetry Can Be Criticized Only Through Poetry. A Critique Which Itself Is Not A Work Of Art, Either In Content As Representation Of The Necessary Impression In The Process Of Creation, Or Through Its Beautiful Form And In Its Liberal Tone In The Spirit Of The Old Roman Satire, Has No Right Of Citizenship In The Realm Of Art.