Art Depends Upon The Inexactitude Of Sight.

I Am The Leading Strings Of The Ego And The Prompter Of Its Concepts.

We Find Nothing Easier Than Being Wise, Patient, Superior. We Drip With The Oil Of Forbearance And Sympathy, We Are Absurdly Just, We Forgive Everything. For That Very Reason We Ought To Discipline Ourselves A Little; For That Very Reason We Ought To Cultivate A Little Emotion, A Little Emotional Vice, From Time To Time. It May Be Hard For Us; And Among Ourselves We May Perhaps Laugh At The Appearance We Thus Present. But What Of That! We No Longer Have Any Other Mode Of Self-overcoming Available To Us: This Is Our Asceticism, Our Penance.

We Think That Play And Fairytales Belong To Childhood - How Shortsighted That Is! As Though We Would Want At Any Time In Our Life To Live Without Play And Fairytales! We Give These Things Other Names, To Be Sure, And Feel Differently About Them, But Precisely This Is The Evidence That They Are The Same Things, For The Child Too Regards Play As His Work And Fairy Tales As His Truth. The Brevity Of Life Ought To Preserve Us From A Pedantic Division Of Life Into Different Stages - As Though Each Brought Something New.

We Must Remain As Close To The Flowers, The Grass, And The Butterflies As The Child Is Who Is Not Yet So Much Taller Than They Are.

... Art Approaches As A Saving Sorceress, Expert At Healing. She Alone Knows How To Turn These Nauseous Thoughts About The Horror Or Absurdity Of Existence Into Notions With Which One Can Live.