One must die to life in order to be utterly a creator.
No man remains quite what he was when he recognizes himself.
This was love at first sight, love everlasting: a feeling unknown, unhoped for, unexpected--in so far as it could be a matter of conscious awareness; it took entire possession of him, and he understood, with joyous amazement, that this was for life.
Time cools, time clarifies; no mood can be maintained quite unaltered through the course of hours.
Technology and comfort - having those, people speak of culture, but do not have it.
For to be poised against fatality, to meet adverse conditions gracefully, is more than simple endurance; it is an act of aggression, a positive triumph.
I don't think anyone is thinking long-term now.
Thought that can merge wholly into feeling, feeling that can merge wholly into thought - these are the artist's highest joy.
What we call National-Socialism is the poisonous perversion of ideas which have a long history in German intellectual life.
What a wonderful phenomenon it is, carefully considered, when the human eye, that jewel of organic structures, concentrates its moist brilliance on another human creature!
Everything is politics.
A lonely, quiet person has observations and experiences that are at once both more indistinct and more penetrating than those of one more gregarious; his thoughts are weightier, stranger, and never without a tinge of sadness. . . . Loneliness fosters that which is original, daringly and bewilderingly beautiful, poetic. But loneliness also fosters that which is perverse, incongruous, absurd, forbidden.
But my deepest and most secret love belongs to the fair-haired and the blue-eyed, the bright children of life, the happy, the charming and the ordinary.
A man’s dying is more the survivors’ affair than his own.
Forbearance in the face of fate, beauty constant under torture, are not merely passive. They are a positive achievement, an explicit triumph.
One has the idea of a stupid man as perfectly healthy and ordinary, and of illness as making one refined and clever and unusual.
Is not life in itself a thing of goodness, irrespective of whether the course it takes for us can be called a 'happy' one?
Even in a personal sense, after all, art is an intensified life. By art one is more deeply satisfied and more rapidly used up. It engraves on the countenance of its servant the traces of imaginary and intellectual adventures, and even if he has outwardly existed in cloistral tranquility, it leads in the long term to overfastidiousness, over-refinement, nervous fatigue and overstimulation, such as can seldom result from a life of the most extravagant passions and pleasures.
We do not fear being called meticulous, inclining as we do to the view that only the exhaustive can be truly interesting.
For the sake of goodness and love, man shall let death have no sovereignty over his thoughts.
(T)here was a story they used to tell at home about a girl whose punishment was that every time she opened her mouth, snakes and toads came out, snakes and toads with every word. The book didn't say what she did about it, but I've always assumed she probably ended up keeping her mouth shut.
Solitude produces originality, bold and astonishing beauty, poetry. But solitude also produces perverseness, the disproportianate, the absurd and the forbidden.
I stand between two worlds. I am at home in neither, and I suffer in consequence. You artists call me a bourgeois, and the bourgeois try to arrest me...I don't know which makes me feel worse.
What good would politics be, if it didn’t give everyone the opportunity to make moral compromises.
Speech is civilization itself.
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