Life Is Writing. The Sole Purpose Of

There Are Ancient And Modern Poems Which Breathe, In Their Entirety And In Every Detail, The Divine Breath Of Irony. In Such Poemsthere Lives A Real Transcendental Buffoonery. Their Interior Is Permeated By The Mood Which Surveys Everything And Rises Infinitely Above Everything Limited, Even Above The Poet's Own Art, Virtue, And Genius; And Their Exterior Form By The Histrionic Style Of An Ordinary Good Italian Buffo.

Gracefulness Is A Correct Life: Sensuality Which Contemplates And Forms Itself.

Just As The Romans Were The Only Nation That Was Truly A Nation, So Our Age Is The First Genuine Age.

No Idea Is Isolated, But Is Only What It Is Among All Ideas.

Because Christianity Is A Religion Of Death, It Could Be Treated With The Utmost Realism, And It Could Have Its Orgies, Just Likethe Old Religion Of Nature And Life.