The great works are produced in such an ecstasy of love that they must always be unworthy of it, however great their worth otherwise.

In this state one enriches everything out of one's own fullness: whatever one sees, whatever wills is seen swelled, taut, strong, overloaded with strength. A man in this state transforms things until they mirror his power—until they are reflections of his perfection. This having to transform into perfection is—art.

Thus I spoke, more and more softly; for I was afraid of my own thoughts and the thoughts behind my thoughts.

He that humbleth himself wishes to be exalted.

There's no defense against stupidity.

He who possesses greatness is cruel towards his secondary virtues and considerations.

What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what there is to love in man is that he is a going-over and a going-under.