He Who Does Not Master

Good Painting Is The Kind That Looks Like Sculpture.

Dear To Me Is Sleep: Still More, Being Made Of Stone, While Pain And Guilt Still Linger Here Below, Blindness And Numbness--these Please Me Alone; Then Do Not Wake Me, Keep Your Voices Low.

If I Am More Alive Because Love Burns And Chars Me, As A Fire, Given Wood Or Wind, Feels New Elation, It's That He Who Lays Me Low Is My Salvation, And Invigorates The More, The More He Scars Me.

I Feast On Wine And Bread, And Feasts They Are.

You Must Know That I Am, Of All Men Who Were Ever Born, The Most Inclined To Love Persons. Whenever I Behold Someone Who Possesses Any Talent Or Displays Any Dexterity Of Mind, Who Can Do Or Say Something More Appropriately Than The Rest Of The World, I Am Compelled To Fall In Love With Him; And Then I Give Myself Up To Him So Entirely That I Am No Longer My Own Property, But Wholly His.