Women Do Not Have As Great A

Every Philosophical Review Ought To Be A Philosophy Of Reviews At The Same Time.

Strictly Speaking, The Idea Of A Scientific Poem Is Probably As Nonsensical As That Of A Poetic Science.

Publication Is To Thinking As Childbirth Is To The First Kiss.

Whoever Has Not Arrived At The Clear Insight That There Might Be Greatness Entirely Outside His Own Sphere For Which He Has No Understanding, Whoever Does Not Have At Least A Dim Inkling In Which Area Of The Human Spirit This Greatness Might Be Situated: He Is Within His Own Sphere Either Without Genius, Or He Has Not Educated Himself Up To The Point Of The Classical Attitude.

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.