The naive which is simultaneously beautiful, poetic, and idealistic, must be both intention and instinct. The essence of intention, in this sense, is freedom. Consciousness is far from intention. There is a certain enamoured contemplation of one's own naturalness or silliness which itself is unspeakably silly. Intention does not necessarily require a profound calculation or plan.

Where there is politics or economics, there is no morality.

When reason and unreason come into contact, an electrical shock occurs. This is called polemics.

Mysteries are feminine; they like to veil themselves but still want to be seen and divined.

Beauty is that which is simultaneously attractive and sublime.

Is it not superfluous to write more than one novel if the writer has not become, say, a new man? Obviously, all the novels of an author not infrequently belong together and are to a certain degree only one novel.

Combine the extremes, and you will have the true center.