... There Is No Such Thing As

It Was The Tenderness Mingled With Melancholy Which We Bring To A Time That Belongs Irrevocably To The Past, When A Pale, Delicate Shadow Rises From It Bearing The Lilies Of The Dead, And In It We Find A Forgotten Likeness To Ourselves. And That Faint, Wistful Shadow, That Pale Scent, Seemed To Vanish Away Into A Wide, Full, Warm Stream - The Life That Now Lay Open Before Him.

For Only Fools, Fanatics, And Mental Cases Can Stand Living At The Highest Pitch Of Soul; A Sane Person Must Be Content With Declaring That Life Would Not Be Worth Living Without A Spark Of That Mysterious Fire.

Every Day There Comes A Moment When A Person Lays His Hands In His Lap And All His Busyness Collapses Like Ashes. The Work Accomplished Is, From The Soul's Point Of View, Entirely Imaginary.

A Man Who Wants The Truth Becomes A Scientist; A Man Who Wants To Give Free Play To His Subjectivity May Become A Writer; But What Should A Man Do Who Wants Something In Between?

Anyone Who Still Wants To Experience Fairytales These Days Can’t Afford To Dither When It Comes To Using Their Brains.