The Art Of Mastering Life Is The

One Does Not Lash Hat Lies At A Distance. The Foibles That We Ridicule Must At Least Be A Little Bit Our Own. Only Then Will The Work Be A Part Of Our Own Flesh. The Garden Must Be Weeded.

All Is Well With Me. The Rain Doesn't Reach Me, My Room Is Well Heated, What More Can One Ask For? There's No Shortage Of Work, Either.

My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

You Adapt Yourself To The Contents Of The Paintbox.

Everything Passes, And What Remains Of Former Times, What Remains Of Life, Is The Spiritual. In Everything We Do, The Claim Of The Absolute Is Unchanging.