No Idea Is Isolated, But Is Only

There Are Ancient And Modern Poems Which Breathe, In Their Entirety And In Every Detail, The Divine Breath Of Irony. In Such Poemsthere Lives A Real Transcendental Buffoonery. Their Interior Is Permeated By The Mood Which Surveys Everything And Rises Infinitely Above Everything Limited, Even Above The Poet's Own Art, Virtue, And Genius; And Their Exterior Form By The Histrionic Style Of An Ordinary Good Italian Buffo.

The Obsession With Moderation Is The Spirit Of Castrated Narrow-mindedness.

Can We Expect The Redemption Of The World From Scholars? I Doubt It. But The Time Has Come For All Artists To Join Together As A Confederation In An Eternal League.

Like Leibniz's Possible Worlds, Most Men Are Only Equally Entitled Pretenders To Existence. There Are Few Existences.

When Ideas Become Gods, Consciousness Of Harmony Becomes Devotion, Humility, And Hope.