Dancing Is Poetry With Arms

There Is No More Steely Barb Than That Of The Infinite.

Everything For Me Becomes Allegory

Who Would Dare Assign To Art The Sterile Function Of Imitating Nature?

To Be Away From Home And Yet To Feel Oneself Everywhere At Home; To See The World, To Be At The Centre Of The World, And Yet To Remain Hidden From The World—impartial Natures Which The Tongue Can But Clumsily Define. The Spectator Is A Prince Who Everywhere Rejoices In His Incognito.

The Will To Work Must Dominate, For Art Is Long And Time Is Brief.