I have forgotten my umbrella.

The discipline of suffering, of great suffering - do you not know that it is this discipline alone that has produced all the elevations of humanity so far?

Ye are ugly? Well then, my brethren, take the sublime about you, the mantle of the ugly!

The poet presents his thoughts festively, on the carriage of rhythm: usually because they could not walk.

The grand style arises when beauty wins a victory over the monstrous.

In the true man there is a child concealed who wants to play.

Will, pure will, without the troubles and complexities of intellect - how happy! how free!