Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord.
I want to be as though new-born, knowing nothing, absolutely nothing about Europe.
He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.
My mirror probes down to the heart. I write words on the forehead and around the corners of the mouth. My human faces are truer than the real ones.
An active line on a walk, moving freely, without goal. A walk for a walk's sake.
Satire must not be a kind of superfluous ill will, but ill will from a higher point of view. Ridiculous man, divine God. Or else, hatred against the bogged-down vileness of average man as against the possible heights that humanity might attain.