Art Is A Severe Business; Most Serious

Whoso Is Content With Pure Experience And Acts Upon It Has Enough Of Truth.

On The Pinnacle Of Success Man Does Not Stand Firm Long.

The Flowers Of Life Are But Illusions. How Many Fade Away And Leave No Trace.

Each Has His Own Happiness In His Hands, As The Artist Handles The Rude Clay He Seeks To Reshape It Into A Figure; Yet It Is The Same With This Art As With All Others: Only The Capacity For It Is Innate; The Art Itself Must Be Learned And Painstakingly Practiced.

Is It Not Enough That We Cannot Make One Another Happy, Must We Also Rob One Another Of The Pleasures That Any Heart May Permit Itself Now And Then? And Name Me A Person Who In A Bad Mood Will Be Decent Enough To Hide It, To Bear It Alone, Without Destroying The Joy Around Him. Is It Not Rather An Inner Dissatisfaction With Our Own Unworthiness, A Dislike Of Ourselves That Is Always Associated With Envy Aggravated By Foolish Conceit? We See People Happy And Not Made Happy By Us, And That Is Unbearable.