No Artist Tolerates Reality.

Not The Intensity But The Duration Of High Feelings Makes High Men.

No Price Is Too High To Pay For The Privilege Of Owning Yourself.

The Great Man... Is Colder, Harder, Less Hesitating, And Without Fear Of 'opinion'; He Lacks The Virtues That Accompany Respect And 'respectability,' And Altogether Everything That Is The 'virtue Of The Herd.' If He Cannot Lead, He Goes Alone... He Knows He Is Incommunicable: He Finds It Tasteless To Be Familiar... When Not Speaking To Himself, He Wears A Mask. There Is A Solitude Within Him That Is Inaccessible To Praise Or Blame.

At A Certain Place In Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, For Example, He Might Feel That He Is Floating Above The Earth In A Starry Dome, With The Dream Of Immortality In His Heart; All The Stars Seem To Glimmer Around Him, And The Earth Seems To Sink Ever Deeper Downwards.

The World Is A Work Of Art That Gives Birth To Itself.