All The Great Truths Are Basically Trivial

Wit Is An Explosion Of The Compound Spirit.

There Are Ancient And Modern Poems Which Breathe, In Their Entirety And In Every Detail, The Divine Breath Of Irony. In Such Poemsthere Lives A Real Transcendental Buffoonery. Their Interior Is Permeated By The Mood Which Surveys Everything And Rises Infinitely Above Everything Limited, Even Above The Poet's Own Art, Virtue, And Genius; And Their Exterior Form By The Histrionic Style Of An Ordinary Good Italian Buffo.

Imagination Must First Be Filled To The Point Of Saturation With Life Of Every Kind Before The Moment Arrives When The Friction Of Free Sociability Electrifies It To Such An Extent That The Most Gentle Stimulus Of Friendly Or Hostile Contact Elicits From It Lightning Sparks, Luminous Flashes, Or Shattering Blows.

Only He Who Possesses A Personal Religion, An Original View Of Infinity, Can Be An Artist.

One Of The Two Is Almost Always A Prevailing Tendency Of Every Author: Either Not To Say Some Things Which Certainly Should Be Said, Or To Say Many Things Which Did Not Need To Be Said. The First Is The Original Sin Of Synthetic Natures, The Latter Of Analytical Natures.