The Person Who In Shaky

Where A Man Has A Passion For Meditating Without The Capacity Of Thinking, A Particular Idea Fixes Itself Fast, And Soon Creates A Mental Disease.

I Had Toward The Poetic Art A Peculiar Relation Which Was Only Practical After I Had Cherished In My Mind For A Long Time A Subject Which Possessed Me, A Model Which Inspired Me, A Predecessor Who Attracted Me, Until At Length, After I Had Molded It

A Talent Can Be Cultivated In Tranquility; A Character Only In The Rushing Stream Of Life.

Does Not Man Lack The Force At The Very Point Where He Needs It Most? And When He Soars Upward In Joy, Or Sinks Down In Suffering, Is Not Checked In Both, Is He Not Returned Again To The Dull, Cold Sphere Of Awareness, Just When He Was Longing To Lose Himself In The Fullness Of The Infinite.

Nothing Is So Atrocious As Fancy Without Taste.