Novels Tend To End As The Paternoster

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.

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.

There Are Writers In Germany Who Drink The Absolute Like Water; And There Are Books In Which Even The Dogs Make References To The Infinite.

Many Works Of The Ancients Have Become Fragments. Many Works Of The Moderns Are Fragments At The Time Of Their Origin.

Nothing Truly Convincing - Which Would Possess Thoroughness, Vigor, And Skill - Has Been Written Against The Ancients As Yet; Especially Not Against Their Poetry.