Poets And Writers Who Are In Love

Insects Sting, Not From Malice, But Because They Want To Live. It Is The Same With Critics; They Desire Our Blood Not Our Pain.

What Is It That Endowed Things With Meaning, Value, Significance? The Creating Heart, Which Desired, And, Out Of Its Desire, Created. It Created Joy And Woe. It Wanted To Satiate Itself With Woe. We Must Take All The Suffering That Has Been Endured By Men And Animals Upon Ourselves And Affirm It, And Possess A Goal In Which It Acquires Reason.

Whatever Is Profound Loves Masks; What Is Most Profound Even Hates Image And Parable.

Art Furnishes Us With Eyes And Hands And Above All The Good Conscience To Be Able To Turn Ourselves Into Such A Phenomenon.

Man Is Very Well Defended Against Himself... The Actual Fortress Is Inaccessible, Even Invisible To Him, Unless His Friends And Enemies Play The Traitor And Conduct Him In By A Secret Path.