True Time Is Four-dimensional.

The Relation Of Feeling Toward Art And Its Bringing-forth Can Be One Of Production Or One Of Reception And Enjoyment.

Longing Is The Agony Of The Nearness Of The Distant.

To Think Is To Confine Yourself To A Single Thought That One Day Stands Still Like A Star In The World's Sky.

In No Way Can It Be Uttered, As Can Other Things, Which One Can Learn. Rather, From Out Of A Full, Co-existential Dwelling With The Thing Itself - As When A Spark, Leaping From The Fire, Flares Into Light - So It Happens, Suddenly, In The Soul, There To Grow, Alone With Itself.

The World, In Resting Upon The Earth, Strives To Surmount It. As Self-opening It Cannot Endure Anything Closed. The Earth, However, As Sheltering And Concealing, Tends Always To Draw The World Into Itself And Keep It There