He Who Is Wise Puts Aside All

Every Author In Some Way Portrays Himself In His Works, Even If It Be Against His Will.

The Deed Is Everything, The Glory Is Naught.

You Can’t, If You Can’t Feel It, If It Never Rises From The Soul, And Sways The Heart Of Every Single Hearer, With Deepest Power, In Simple Ways. You’ll Sit Forever, Gluing Things Together, Cooking Up A Stew From Other’s Scraps, Blowing On A Miserable Fire, Made From Your Heap Of Dying Ash. Let Apes And Children Praise Your Art, If Their Admiration’s To Your Taste, But You’ll Never Speak From Heart To Heart, Unless It Rises Up From Your Heart’s Space.

One Is Never Satisfied With The Portrait Of A Person That One Knows.

To Blow Is Not To Play On The Flute; You Must Move The Fingers. [ger., Blasen Ist Nicht Floten, Ihr Musst Die Finger Bewegen.]