Time Flies, And What Is Past Is

The Artist Has A Twofold Relation To Nature; He Is At Once Her Master And Her Slave.

Life Seems So Vulgar, So Easily Content With The Commonplace Things Of Every Day, And Yet It Always Nurses And Cherishes Certain Higher Claims In Secret, And Looks About For The Means Of Satisfying Them.

There Is Nothing Outside Of Us That Is Not At The Same Time In Us, And As The External World Has Its Colors The Eye, Too, Has Colors.

He Who Knows No Foreign Languages Knows Nothing Of His Own.

My Counsel Is, To Force Nothing, And Rather To Trifle And Sleep Away All Unproductive Days And Hours, Than On Such Days To Compose Something That Will Afterwards Give No Pleasure.